Swallowed in the Sea
by Antoinette Rose
Summary: Lucille Sullivan, a new White Star Line stewardess, boards the Ship of Dreams. Her fear of water, but desperation for money makes her take the plunge and board, only to find herself surrounded by water, lost without the one man who could truly save her.
1. Author's Disclaimer

I can't believe I'm back! I thought after _Everything's Not Lost_, I would swear off fan-fiction for the rest of my existence, at least _Titanic_ fan-fiction. But, I'm back, reeling over a new story, with new characters and old characters alike. The story centers around Lucy (Lucille, if you must) Sullivan, whose a brand-new stewardess with the White Star Line. Despite this irrational fear of water that she has, she boards Titanic. And of course, water and Titanic is a staple. The ship sinks, after all! Anyhow, something happens…Yet again, this is a story, of course something happens, but I started this story differently. The first chapter may not make much sense in the beginning, but as we reach the end, it will…hopefully. No, I'm sure it'll make sense once I get closer to the end, but this first chapter is what I call the desperation chapter. And yet again, I'm using Coldplay as my inspiration for the title. I need to get some new music. I'm not sure how well the song fits into the story, but the whole sea aspect worked. Of course, copyright to them…This is a working title. Hopefully, this title will either get changed or grow on me.

Anyhow, if we can think that far back, there's a scene in _Titanic_ when Thomas Andrews is going down the halls of the ship, making sure everyone's out of their rooms and he stops to speak with this pretty stewardess. He says: "Lucy, for God's sake, put on your lifebelt, set a good example." That's my Lucy. We get to learn about her life, her goals, her passions—all in a tightly-bundled package known as this story. I have no life whatsoever, so I was wondering who Lucy was…and this story was born.

This story is going to be a little different than my first one. Try not to compare it to Ann/Harold, okay? Please, pretty please? It's different! Lucy's crew, she's not a passenger, and we have a lot more characters, who are new, who all seem to have conflicts with one another. She definitely deals with other crew members, who I'm trying to find names for (With the exception of Alan and Maureen, the names of the crew actually existed on the ship. Granted, there will be exceptions!) Either way, let's hope it's okay and not too awful. If it is this bad, I promise I won't torture people with it after a few chapters. Okay?

Anyhow, I know there's a lot of controversy around what actually happened the night of Titanic's sinking, concerning who did what and all of that, and I'm not sure which way I'm going to go with the characters. As a prime example, did William Murdoch shoot himself or in the midst of the panic, did someone think that and it didn't actually happen? I'm not sure, if/when I hit the sinking, what's going to happen, and the last thing I want is for people to say, "Hey, that didn't happen!" I might keep something in for the drama impact of it, or I might take it out for the fact that it wouldn't fit into the main story line. Characters may be out of place at times, but I think I can make it all work. Either way, let's see if we can find a place in our hearts for these characters! And let's pray and maybe, just maybe, God willing, this little story will find a home here.

As usual, I do not own Titanic, the film, or anything that follows under those lines. I mean no disrespect to the passengers and crew of the ship, and this story is being written to keep my sanity in place. (Although my sanity seems to have escaped me now, I'm writing _another_ story!) The characters I've created belong to me and all of that, but other than that really boring beginning, I hope you enjoy and don't get too hyped up, the story may just be bad. (I hope not!) Either way, I always feel like I should be writing and so here I am…back and just as crazy! So, here I am, taking the plunge. Take the plunge with me?

Sincerely yours,

The Author


	2. Waiting is the Hardest Part

Wait. That's all that must be done. That's all that I have to do now. And truth be told, I've never been all that great at just sitting and…_waiting_. I glanced around the café as the screams outside seemed to fade—at the liquor counter, at the wicker table I'm sitting at, at the wicker chairs, at the black and white checkered floor…I sighed. Maybe it's just my hearing that is seeming to fade. The screams sound closer now. But…the room, Maureen would want me to call it by its' proper name: the Verandah Café and Palm Court. Then again, I don't care what she wants. All people did in here was drink liquor, anyway, it was not—I repeat, _not_ a café. I was forced to dress the women up to come in here, for no apparent reason. I glanced to my right at the revolving door that led into the first-class smoking room—where Mr. Andrews had retreated only minutes before. I rested my head on my arm against the table, pushing the bulky lifejacket I had worn earlier tonight away. It fell to the floor without a sound.

I just have to wait. But, wait for _what_? The end. It seems logical enough—to wait for the end, but waiting has never suited me. Waiting is something cowards do and I am not a coward. I'm merely heartbroken. I have been crying for what feels like forever and I know my tears may just never stop. They may never stop until it's truly and finally over. What will happen at the end? Well, the ship will sink, all the way to the bottom of the sea. That's known and that's going to happen, no matter what anyone does. But, what would happen to me? To Titanic's crew? To Mr. Andrews? But, more than anyone else, what happened to _him_?

I know how far I'm tilting now and the chairs around me began to push away from me, past me and towards the right wall. I don't care. I really don't. What about him? I rubbed my tired eyes, refusing to lift my head from my arm. Why did he do it? I sighed. I suppose it doesn't matter _why_ anyone does something that ultimately ruins them, but I'd still like to know why. Was what we had not enough? Was I not enough for him? Or did he merely lose his head and now, he has to live with his mistake? The ship seemed to groan, but I ignored it. I miss him too much to even care anymore.

I never thought someone could love me the way he did, _does_. I don't even know what tense to use when I talk about him, which may be even more frustrating than losing him. But, it's not. I can lie to myself all I want, but when it comes down to the last moments of breath, I know losing him is more than I can stand. I closed my eyes, trying to picture him as I had the day I had first met him, instead of when I saw him for the last time. He was panic-stricken, begging for me to get out of here and where I belonged—but me, being my stubborn self, refused. And now that he's gone, how can I possibly leave? I wasn't leaving without him and I'm sticking to that promise.

I wanted him to stay with me, to never go away. He told me he was never going to go away, no matter how much I wanted him to, no matter how much I begged. He was too persistent. I smiled at the memory of his persistence, as I sat up, bringing the overcoat he had given me earlier tonight closer to me. It still smells of him, even. And as I buried myself in the black overcoat, I feel as if he's embracing me, like he always used to. My eyes fluttered somewhat as I laid my head back down onto my arm, and I shut them for good. I have nothing to lose by closing them, everyone's already gone. My mind, as if I can't control it, seems to be going back to days ago…before I had even met him, before my incredible fear of water would ever come into play…Before Titanic hit the iceberg.


	3. The Meeting

"Titanic is to set sail to America tomorrow morning and we must be ready!" Maureen slammed her fist down at the head of the table as she stood. Everyone at the table equally jumped at that. It's too early for such quick movements. And here we all are: in some abused back room in the White Star Line office, getting yelled at by someone to the likes of Maureen Kexington—it was her idea for this supposed _meeting_. Everyone here, including myself, could really care less.

She is no petite fairy, Maureen. She is a sturdy, solid woman who must weigh at least two of me and the boss of all things unholy. She's the woman who the White Star Line allows to boss the crew around, the crew who are just below the ship's officers. That is, the stewards, the waiters, the waitresses and the stewardesses. Scared stewardesses like myself seem to be a lone army—and it's probably because they really could care less about what Maureen has to say. As for me? I don't care, but I _have_ to care. She's my boss and she has the right and the reason to fire me for one bad decision or move. I've seen it happen. I've seen girls cry their eyes out over spilt milk and then lose their jobs because of it. The old saying about crying over spilt milk does not ring true when dealing with Maureen Kexington.

I glanced around the table at the rest of the crew—people who have practically spent their whole lives bowing down to Maureen, kissing the ground she walks on—and have yet to lose their positions. Maybe I should take a cue from them. Maybe I shouldn't. I, frankly, don't like my job, anyway, so if I lost it, it wouldn't be too much of a tragedy. However, money. Money. I need the money. Who doesn't need money? I can't necessarily _afford_ to lose a job that took me so long to find and to keep. And besides, Jonathan. He needs the money—my family needs the money. My poor baby brother. The poor thing has been sick with everything under the sun and what does the doctor do? He sends us a bill! He's ten years old, for crying out loud, yet that incompetent doctor addresses the bills to him! As if my brother can give him the money. But…this dumb job. I thought taking this job would help pay for his medical expenses. It's better than not having money at all, quite frankly.

"I will not be embarrassed for incompetence aboard this liner," Maureen said sternly, beginning to pace the front of the room, arms crossed over her chest. Is she talking to me? I know I've made some mistakes in my training—I've spilt tea, milk, coffee, trays of food, but I have yet to spill anything on someone. I know I'm the newest person under the White Star Line, but it doesn't mean I'm stupid or even incompetent. I'm a fast learner. Maureen has it out for me, I think. She has it out for anyone who's new. I believe that wholeheartedly. "Titanic is the most luxurious steamer we've ever had to serve on. Let's not screw it up!" Everyone mumbled in agreement. "And that is why, ladies and gentlemen, I have called this meeting." She cleared her throat, continuing to pace. "Just for a quick run-through before tomorrow morning. The passenger is _always _right." Okay, then. "Whatever the passenger wants, the passengers gets. Nothing is out of reach. If you can't do something for a passenger, you find your superior. For example, Lucille." I jumped at the sound of my name. "If you can't reach something for a first-class woman, you'd go find a _steward_." She emphasized on the male aspect of that sentence. "And then, if he can't find a resolution, he would find _his _superior. Understood?" I forced a nod.

"Yes, ma'am." She smiled, proud of herself.

"Good." She took in a deep breath. "Let me repeat myself: Anything the passenger wants, the passenger gets."

"Sexual favors included?" hissed a voice in my ear. I held back my laughter and glanced to my right to Alan, who had an enormous smile on his face. Alan, Alan, Alan. Alan Mallard—a steward. He kind of unofficially trained me when I first signed up for this horrid position, and made sure I actually _knew_ what I was doing. Men under women, it always seems, when you're dealing with jobs.

I smiled at him and his grin grew even wider than before. He's handsome enough, I suppose—It's not stomach-churning to look at him. I guess I got lucky in that sense and if nothing else, he's not old enough to be my father. If I had to guess, I'd say he was only a year or so older than me. And he doesn't look too bad in that steward uniform, either, with that dark brown hair of his. He's sort of like the annoying older brother I never had, since all I have is a younger brother. It would be nice to have an older brother, someone to worry about me…and I suppose Alan has filled that tiny void for me. For that, I owe him my life.

But, thinking about uniforms now, since all I see are steward uniforms around me—the women's uniforms more specifically, they're absolutely awful. Awful! We all look like nurses, marshmallow nurses, with the white bonnet, the white apron, and the black dresses. You'd expect us to resuscitate someone if need be. If someone didn't know, you'd swear we were all twenty years older than we actually are. Then again, the White Star Line emblem is on the corner of the apron, which makes us all seem like property. I suppose we are. Now, getting back to Alan and his comment…

"You're awful," I whispered to him, still trying not to laugh.

"I'm serious."

"Problem?" Maureen quipped. We both looked up at her and all eyes on the table focused to us.

"No, no," Alan said, sounding completely relaxed.

"Good." She turned her attention back to everyone else. "Either way, Titanic is the White Star Line's pride and joy. Let's make Titanic's maiden voyage a happy one, alright? Let's make the passengers who paid good money happy to have used us as their traveling companion, and let's make sure they want to come back to use the company again." Why would they want to use the White Star Line again, when it's an English company? If you're in New York, you're not going to be thinking of some European ship company. Isn't that only logical?

Anyhow, Titanic. I sighed. It's all anyone and everyone can talk about: the unsinkable ship. Dubbed by the papers, she can't sink. According to everyone else, it is the most luxurious travel ship to ever set foot on the water and the biggest ship _ever_ built by man. It's a ship, in my head, and nothing less, nothing more. A ship with so many passengers, it could get quite crowded. And with us docking out of Southampton tomorrow morning, I know it's going to be murder. There are going to be so many people and the crowd will be enough to make me want to quit my job altogether. It would be a reason to quit, wouldn't it?

Personally, I have no idea how I'm going to be able to board Titanic. Maureen continued to talk, but I'm not listening. I have this fear of water—a fear I should've known would conflict with a ship stewardess's job. What does a ship do? It sails on _water_! The fear may come in for the fact that I can't swim and I merely have a vision of sinking straight to the bottom of any stream, lake, river or even in this case, ocean. I suppose I can just close my eyes and think of happy thoughts when I board. And while on board? I'll stay clear of the railings, so I can't see the water. That won't be easy. But, the last thing I want is for Maureen to find out. It'll be my downfall. Then again, I suppose I'll be inside the ship itself, anyhow, so I may be safe. It's all for Jonathan. I just have to keep telling myself that. He gives me something to live for.

"Tomorrow morning, people!" Maureen said loudly, making me look up at her. "Let's not be late—Nobody's going to wait for anyone. Let's make this a happy voyage, alright?" Everyone mumbled in agreement. "Great. Meeting adjourned." When she walked out of the room, the tension died down considerably as people around me got up and quickly made a retreat for the door.

"You're going to make me lose my job," I told Alan as we stood from our chairs.

"I thought you _wanted_ to lose your job." I nodded, pushing my chair in.

"I do, but I'd like to lose it without your assistance."

"Alright, then!" He laughed as we made our way out of the room and into the hallway. "You wanna get some lunch?"

"It's ten 'o' clock in the morning, Alan." I took off the apron and that silly bonnet that covers my hair. Maureen makes all of us wear our supposed uniforms all day, every day, even when she's shouting at all of us. Maybe it's considered a sign of respect. To me, it's a pain—merely because of all the pins it takes for that dumb bonnet to stay put on top of my head.

"So, what?" I pulled a few pins from my hair and stuffed them into my pocket.

"Alan, nobody's even serving _breakfast_." I plucked his hat from his head.

"Hey!" He went to reach for it, but I laughed, not letting him take it.

"It's sunken in," I told him. "You look like an idiot."

"I don't care. Maybe I want to look like an idiot!"

"Maybe, but I doubt it."

"Luce!" My nickname. He refuses to call me by my birth-given name: Lucille Sullivan. So, he either calls me Lucy or Luce. Luce was his idea of a cute nickname. I really don't care. He calls me that and really no one else does. It's Lucy to everyone else, Lucille to Maureen and my parents. "Who cares how I look! Nobody's here, anyway!" I looked up from the hat to the hallway before us and a few feet away was a tall figure, his head infused in what looked to be a notebook, him scribbling away.

"Liar. Look, there's someone." He sighed, taking the hat and throwing it onto his head.

"Mr. Andrews," Alan informed me. I raised an eyebrow. It doesn't look like him. Then again…It could be him.

"Mr. Andrews?" I questioned. Alan nodded, as if it were obvious, waving to him as we got closer. It _is_ him.

"Hello, Mr. Andrews," Alan said, tipping his hat to him. He looked up from his notebook and smiled at Alan and I.

"Hello, Alan." He nodded his head to me. "Lucy." His Irish accent seems to be as apparent as ever when he says my name. Thomas Andrews has to be one of the sweetest men I have ever had the pleasure to know. He built the Titanic, and he's famous now. In the newspaper's eyes, he is a shipbuilder of amazing abilities, he's incredible. Yet, he always seems to remember our names. Us, dumb crew. He remembers everyone's name and I mean everyone. I only know _of_ him, I barely know him.

"Hello, Mr. Andrews," I said sweetly, smiling. He's not too hard to look at, either. Whoever his wife is, she's one smart girl. I know he has a daughter, and that gold wedding band of his seems to shine.

Actually, I met his daughter a few weeks ago. He had brought her to see Titanic and I was trying to get myself together in this very office. She's beautiful, Elizabeth Andrews. She has her father's smile—She's going to be a heartbreaker and I told him so.

"How's Elizabeth?" I asked. He smiled, proud.

"Oh, she's wonderful. She's talking up a storm these days."

"How old is she now?" Alan asked.

"Three." I whistled to myself. A toddler. She must be driving her parents up the wall. "Just this morning, she felt the need to throw some peas at me as I was leaving." I smiled at that as he chuckled. "Made me not want to leave home. She's been saying Daddy for a few days now."

"Well," I began, "we'll be back before you know it! Then, you can see her."

"She always looks so different when I come back from a business trip."

"She is absolutely beautiful," I told him simply. He smiled.

"She is, she is." Silence.

"Hey, don't look now," Alan hissed into my ear. I looked over Mr. Andrews' shoulder and trampling down the hallway, and towards us is none other than Maureen. "I told you not to look!" he hissed.

"I couldn't help it!" I went to take his arm, but he rushed past me and took a step into a room to our right, an office maybe? "What are you doing?"

"Hiding." With that, he slammed the door in our faces. I glanced at Mr. Andrews, who was trying not to laugh.

"Alan!" I banged on the door with my fist. "Get out here and be a man!"

"Find your own hiding place," was his only reply. I groaned, leaning against the door. Maureen shoved her way past Mr. Andrews, him almost falling over and she raised an eyebrow at me.

"Lucille, _what _in God's name are you doing?" she asked, irritated. She always sounds like a scolding mother, preferably _my _scolding mother. I gestured to the door behind me. I can't lie.

"Well, I was—"

"I don't care." My mouth was still hanging open from her interrupting me. "Shut your mouth, Lucille. I really _do not_ care." I shut my hanging jaw. "Our meeting has been adjourned. You should've been gone minutes ago." Well…Okay, then. "If this is any indication of how you are going to act on board tomorrow, I don't like it. I really don't." As if I care what she likes. How about what I like?

"No, ma'am, this won't happen," I reassured her.

"Gallivanting around merely gets others in trouble. You do know that, don't you?" I forced a nod, trying not to gulp. She scares me, she really does. "I do not want you to cause any undue trouble on board Mr. Andrews's fine ship." She smiled at him and he looks as scared as I am. "Understood?"

"Yes."

"Yes, _what_?" I hesitated. I have no idea what she wants! Oh, yes…It's either ma'am or Ms. Kexington to her. How about Satan?

"Yes, Ms. Kexington." I curtseyed, just like she always wants us to, even though I'm probably blushing out of embarrassment with Mr. Andrews standing there. I feel like such a fool. She seemed happy I remembered the rule. I'd be happy if she dropped dead.

"Good." She walked past me and I let out an enormous breath of relief, my shoulders dropping and losing their tension. "Bright and early tomorrow!" she shouted at me over her shoulder. "Bright and early, do not be late!" Drop dead. I glanced at Mr. Andrews, who shut his notebook and placed his pen into his overcoat pocket.

"Is she always like this?" he asked skeptically. I nodded, brushing blonde hair from my eyes.

"Sadly, yes." We can't blame Titanic's maiden voyage or stress for her attitude. That's how she is. She's a dictator, a female dictator. She needs to relax. How she ever found herself a husband, I don't know. Mr. Andrews forced a laugh, shaking his head.

"She'll calm down, once we get sailing tomorrow." He paused. "Hopefully."

"Hopefully," I repeated, with a nod. He smiled, taking a step towards me.

"Don't let her get you down, Lucy. Have some fun on Titanic, would you?"

"I have a job to do, Mr. Andrews," I laughed. If I don't do the job, I assume I don't get paid. That's how it works, doesn't it?

"Job or no job, I'd like to see everyone have a good time. This _is_ her maiden voyage, after all."

"Well, I can try." He smiled.

"That's all I ask. Trying is better than nothing." I nodded.

"Right."

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Lucy. It's sunny out, enjoy yourself."

"Will do." He put a hand on my shoulder.

"And don't work _too hard_. They don't pay you _that _much." That made me smile. His always grin still apparent, he walked past me.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Andrews," I found myself saying aloud. He glanced over his shoulder at me, nodding his head.

"You, too, Lucy!" He is such a happy man and…oh, for goodness sake's, he's married and _happily_ married at that. I sighed. I suppose I find it endearing the way he treats people. I wish I was that outgoing, instead of being in my own little shell—where Maureen can verbally abuse me and Alan can leave me out to dry like a soggy dishcloth when I need him the most. I watched intently as Mr. Andrews took a sharp right down a hallway just as the door behind me opened. Being in my own little world, I practically fell into it.

"Hey, be careful!" Alan laughed as he somewhat caught me before stepping out into the hallway.

"I cannot believe you ran in there," I told him, regaining my composure, crossing my arms over my chest. "You are such a jerk!"

"Yes, but I'm a_ loveable _jerk." I sighed.

"Sure you are." He grinned, as if he had gotten away with something. Well, he did—He got out of dealing with Satan. "You're going to have to deal with her eventually, you know."

"Mr. Andrews leave?"

"Why, yes—Wait a minute, don't change the subject on me!"

"You hungry?"

"What?"

"…Because I wouldn't mind some eggs right about now—"

"You can't hide from her forever," I told him sternly as he began down the hallway in front of us, ignoring me.

"Why not?" he questioned. "It's been working for you."

"Alan!" He looked over his shoulder at me, trying not to grin. "That's different, she hates me."

"She hates _everyone_."

"But, I'm at the top of her list!"

"She has a list?" I sighed, rolling my eyes.

"You know what I mean!"

"And your hiding doesn't do us any good," he continued, "she always seems to find us." We took a right down another corridor.

"I'm predictable—and it's _me_ she always finds." I stopped short. "And you know what?"

"What?" I rolled my eyes at the sarcasm in his voice.

"You are the _most_ annoying man on this Earth!"


	4. Regulation Number Eleven

"Regulation number eleven." I rolled my eyes at Alan, refusing to look him in the eye, continuing to twirl my spoon in my coffee cup. So, he had managed to get me to go get something to eat. I couldn't refuse a free meal, it's too early. "Lucy. Regulation number eleven."

"Alan, shut up." A free meal isn't worth this. I took a sip of the black liquid, as he smiled at me.

"Haha, very funny. You have to have the rules memorized, you do realize this, right?"

"Does she _really_ make you recite them?" I questioned. Alan keeps on telling me that when he first started working for the White Star Line, Maureen kept forcing him to repeat everything in this handbook that we get entitled The White Star Line Rules and Regulations Handbook. I guess we have to memorize the section for the crew…which is the whole damn book. It's not as if the book could teach the passengers some well-needed manners. No, it's just us.

"She does," he told me. "She just…_does_."

"And you get fired if you don't know what to say?" He hesitated and I forced a laugh. "Alan, do not tell me I'm memorizing this for nothing!"

"You're not. I never actually saw anyone lose their job over it, but there were rumors about it."

"Rumors are _not_ fact," I stated.

"But, rumors are based _on_ fact." He pointed to the book on the table in front of us, tapping it. "Regulation number eleven." I sighed. "I know you know it, just recite it."

"Maybe I don't want to," I said, shrugging a shoulder.

"Maybe you want to lose your job." I nodded eagerly.

"There you go. Yes, I want to lose my job."

"No, you don't." I nodded at him. "What about Jonathan?" I stopped short, running a tired hand through my hair.

"Jonathan…" I murmured, resting my head in my palm. "Jonathan. Well." I shot a look at Alan. "I could always find another job."

"Not one that pays as well."

"Pays? You mean we get _paid_ to do this?" He smiled.

"Not enough." He paused, shaking his head at me. "You don't want to lose your job, Luce. The job market is hurting as it is." I forced a nod. I know. It was hard enough to find this job, thank you very much. "Besides, I'd miss you too much. Now." He pointed to the book in his hands. "Just humor me and say the rule." I groaned, taking another gulp of my coffee. I can already anticipate the aggravation on this trip to America. It's going to be hell. Why did I sign up for this? I rubbed my forehead, trying to remember rule number eleven. "Number ten had to deal with the passengers. Number eleven has to deal with…"

"Other members of the crew," I mumbled. "No crew member may become involved with another crew member while both have employment under this company."

"Perfect." He nodded in approval, turning a page in the handbook.

"Alan, it's too early to repeat that handbook. I barely know my name."

"You seem to know my name pretty well."

"You never go away." He didn't respond to that, but took another bite of his toast.

"Hey, you sure you don't want something to eat?" he questioned.

"Positive."

"You're going to be hungry later—"

"I'll be _fine_," I interrupted. "What are you?" I suddenly asked, "my mother?"

"Someone has to be." I sighed. He got me on that. I have no witty comeback to that. "Besides, learning the rules is important."

"You can't even _follow _rules. I have no idea how you memorized them."

"I wrote them down on my hand."

"You did not." He nodded, holding out his left hand to me.

"Oh, yes I did. You can still see the ink marks." I put down my coffee cup and took his hand, leaning it towards the window to get the sunlight. And sure enough, I can see traces of black ink on his hand.

"You are _desperate_!" I laughed.

"Hey, it worked for me."

"You probably have ink poisoning," I mused aloud.

"That would explain the metallic taste I have in my mouth." I stared at him, dropping his hand. You can _die_ from ink poisoning. Does he not realize that?

"Are you serious?"

"No! Luce, take a deep breath." I took in a deep breath, slowly allowing the air to leave my lungs. "I'm kidding," he said, with a smile. I slapped him on the hand.

"Ow!" He pulled back his hand in pain.

"Well, you shouldn't kid about something like that!" I sighed angrily as he rubbed his hand gently.

"It _was_ ink," he admitted, "but it was from yesterday morning."

"Writing?" I suggested, looking out the window out onto the harbor of Southampton.

"Signing paychecks. The pens at the banks are God-awful…" He stopped. "Luce?" I glanced at him.

"Yeah?"

"Exciting trip tomorrow, huh?" I nodded, despite the randomness of his statement.

"Maiden voyage…"

"And not just any maiden voyage…"

"Titanic's maiden voyage. The unsinkable ship. The biggest ship ever built." I paused, shrugging a shoulder. "Should be interesting, anyway." He smiled at the sarcasm.

"All of those people on board…"

"And we've got to serve them," I groaned, running a hand through my windblown hair. Damn wind.

"Not all of them."

"Just the first-class ones, I know."

"Then again, I bet there will be some beautiful women on board…"

"Dream again, Lover Boy."

"A man's got a right to dream, Lucy!"

"They won't give you or I the time of day, you and I both know that."

"Then, there are the officers, no women, though…"

"And I hear those officers are mighty charming…" I said, with a smile.

"And good-looking," added an accented voice. We both looked up and standing at our table was a uniformed officer, his hat under his arm, grinning down at Alan. "Of course, that's only rumor." He paused, almost for emphasis. "Hi, Alan." Must be another White Star Line slave. He has to be. How else would he know Alan? All he does is work—just like the rest of us.

"Harry!" He stood and they both shook hands, the biggest smile on both of their faces. "Come on, take a seat, join us."

"I heard you talking about Titanic's voyage and thought I'd come over and say hello." Alan pushed down the cushioned seat to make room for this Harry character and he sat down. "And who's this?" the officer asked, gesturing to me.

"God, I'm so rude. This is Lucy. Harry, Lucille Sullivan. Lucy, Harold Lowe." He held out his hand and we shook, that dumb-looking smile still plastered across his face.

"Hello," he said, that accent of his making it almost difficult to understand what he's saying.

"Pleasure," I said, as we dropped hands.

"We work together," Alan felt the need to add in.

"Against my will," I made sure to point out. Harry chuckled. "How about you? Do you work for the White Star Line?" He nodded, almost embarrassed by it.

"Yes, I do, as an officer."

"Really?" I raised an eyebrow of interest. "Well, are you going on Titanic's trip tomorrow?"

"Lucy, do you have to give everyone the third degree?" Alan questioned, leaning back into the booth. Harry smiled, shrugging.

"It's alright." He turned to me. "I'm the Fifth Officer of Titanic, so I suppose it's my civic duty to be there tomorrow morning when we board." I smiled at the sarcasm.

"Well, well, well." I whistled for emphasis. "Impressive." I gestured to Alan and I. "And you're an officer while we're first-class servants to those passengers!"

"Aren't we all at the mercy of the passengers?" Harry asked, a small smile appearing on his face. I nodded. He's got that part right.

"Excited about the trip or what?" Alan asked him, changing the subject. Harry shrugged a shoulder.

"It's a big vessel, no doubt," he laughed, "but other than that, no, not really."

"She's the most luxurious liner the White Star Line has to offer," I said, trying to sound impressed. I'm not, really. "Which means double overtime for Alan and I." Alan laughed himself, taking another bite of toast. "I can't wait," I groaned.

"Me, either," Harry agreed, sarcasm thick in his voice. I smiled.

"And they don't tip," I felt the need to add.

"No, they don't," Alan agreed, his mouth half-full.

"But, they should!" I hit my hand on the table for emphasis. "It's an injustice to all of us. It's not like they pay us that much." I took up the coffee cup in my hands, taking a gulp of it. "Either way…" I sighed, "it's going to be a _long_ trip."

"Luce, you make it sound like Hell," Alan observed.

"And it's _not_?" Harry questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"It isn't all that bad!" I shot Alan a look of skepticism.

"He's in denial," I told Harry, gripping the porcelain cup tighter than before.

"You're new, Lucy," Alan began, "things won't be that bad."

"And you know this _how_?"

"I've been working here longer than you—" 

"And it won't get any better than how you describe it, Lucy," Harry interrupted. I nodded at him.

"Thank you." Someone has some sense, thank God.

"No problem."

"You shouldn't be encouraging her negativity," Alan scolded.

"I'm not going to lie to the girl," he replied. "It's not fun. It's work. People are damn demanding and they want you to wait on them hand and foot—"

"Even as an officer?" I questioned skeptically. He nodded.

"The lower you are on the officer food chain, the more people expect you to get them things. Tea has become a specialty of mine." He rubbed his eyes, trying to escape the memory. "It shouldn't be something I even know _how_ to do…"

"How do you expect to make your future wife tea if you don't have practice now?" He paused, staring at me before what I had said registered. He smiled.

"That's very true." He laughed. "Very true. Good thing I had Moody teach me…" I'm not even going to ask who that is. "…Knew it would come in handy someday."

"Either way, Titanic." I sighed. Every time I say the name of that vessel, I feel the need to sigh. Granted, I hear she's beautiful and all of that—but it's just a ship. Then again, it's Mr. Andrews's pride and joy. I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations, especially those first-class passengers who spent all of that money on tickets. Then again, money has never been an issue for anyone on the first-class passenger list. They throw money down the drain just to see it get wet. Money has never been an object.

"Tomorrow morning," Harry sighed with me. "Tomorrow. Morning."

"And let's stay positive," Alan said. I stared at him, aggravated. Is he kidding me? We're going to be working like chickens with our heads chopped off and he wants us to stay _positive_?

"Alan." He nodded at me. "Do us all a favor and just shut up."

"Shutting up."


	5. Cherbourg

As I predicted, boarding in Southampton was mad, insane, crazy, and there were so many people, you couldn't even see the dock. As crew, we were all forced to dock early, and then we had to set up after signing in. Thank you, Maureen. But, try finding a room on Titanic without a map. It took me almost two hours to find my assigned room. I had lost track of Alan and anyone else that I knew by ten in the morning, and I was shoving and pushing my way past people I didn't know. Titanic is almost _too_ big. Where's Mr. Andrews when I need a guide?

Stewards and myself alike all helped people get settled into their rooms and as I suspected, barely any of them gave me a second glance as they told me where to put their suitcases. I suppose I should be used to the treatment by now, but I never will be, no matter how long I may work as a stewardess. Alan seemed unfazed by it all as we lifted trunks into the appropriate room, where a royal was occupying it, but I couldn't help but feel worthless.

I know that's just how crew members are treated, but it's not right. Nobody even seems all that nice here. And I joined this company. I still can't believe it, but the money. Money. Why do people need money, anyway? If our society wasn't based on wealth or money at all, we all would be much happier. I totally believe that. Then again, coming from an underpaid stewardess, you can never be too sure how important money is. It's important, I know, and it's just too important to _not_ have a job. If only my father hadn't passed away…I doubt I'd be here. I know I should feel grateful, I'm on the grandest ship on this Earth, but it's not as if I'm going to enjoy it. I'm going to serve people for this entire trip, from today to the fifteenth. It's not going to be fun, and it's certainly not going to be a picnic.

We have two stops to make before we begin making our way to America. Alan had informed me of that as we were moving trunks and luggage. The first stop's in Cherbourg, France and then tomorrow morning, Queenstown, Ireland. I can't believe we're stopping, to be perfectly honest. It took hours to board everyone in Southampton, couldn't these passengers have made their way to England so we could just get this show on the road? Of course not.

I've stayed away from the deck myself, to avoid any early heart attacks by seeing water. The visions of falling overboard and drowning are constant in my mind. After this voyage, I may have to seriously consider another career. I've stayed indoors, and helped as much as I could. I'm not the strongest girl, but I can lift luggage, thankfully. I just need someone else's assistance.

When we reached Cherbourg what felt like hours ago, Titanic couldn't fit into the town's port! Alan was laughing at that, so hard that he was practically in tears. So, the passengers had to be carried on another White Star ship to board Titanic, a total of two-hundred and seventy-four passengers, to be exact. I've seen the pages of passenger lists from Cherbourg and it's not pretty, especially when some are first-class…More work, of course, for us.

As I made my way towards the set of D-deck elevators (there are too many elevators on this ship to count!), where passengers are coming in and out, I saw a woman carrying brown luggage, with gold lettering, under her arms, walking towards the elevators. She's obviously first-class, her clothes are worth more than a year of my salary. I can now see Alan running to catch up with her, himself looking completely flustered and confused as of what to do.

"Well," she said, her American accent as present as ever, placing her luggage on the ground, "I wasn't about to wait all day for you, sonny." She handed him a small little box that looks almost like it carries jewelry. "Here. Think you can manage?" I laughed to myself as Alan took the other luggage from the floor. The woman went for an available elevator, just as one elevator had its' gates shut by the operator. She went for the elevator to the far right, as I leaned against a pole that held up the ceiling above us, crossing my arms over my chest. Let's see what happens now. I'm awfully curious. Let's see how Alan handles this situation! I heard someone clearing their throat and I almost fell over. I'd recognize that throat clearing anywhere. Maureen.

"Lucille." Oh, God. She tapped on my shoulder and I immediately stood up straight before turning to face her. Oh, God—she doesn't look happy. "Just _what_ are you doing?" I didn't dare answer. "Go help Alan." He looks like he doesn't need my help. But, as I glanced over at him, he was staring at me with pleading eyes, begging for me to help him. "_Now_." I groaned to myself at Maureen's agitating voice. "Lucille, I don't pay you to stand there and relax. Go." She pushed me a tiny bit and made me almost fall flat on my face. She's one strong woman. "Go on, go." I sighed, making my way towards both Alan and the first-class woman, just as the elevator operator was about to shut the gates.

"Hold on," I told him.

"Miss, there's really no more room—" I brushed past him and towards Alan as the locks of the gate were done up. There's always room for one more.

"Need some help?" I offered, taking a few pieces of luggage from a very happy coworker.

"Hey, Luce," he said, with a smile. Dear God, what's in this luggage? Bricks? Bodies? They're heavy!

"At least you got some help!" the woman laughed to Alan, before nodding at me. "And what's your name, darlin'?"

"Lucy," I managed to choke out, "ma'am." She smiled.

"No need to call me ma'am, I'm not that old yet. Name's Molly Brown." Even though I can barely breathe, I forced a smile. "And don't call me _Mrs. Brown_, either." She eyed Alan and then me. "Molly's fine with me." Maureen won't like that we don't call her something formal, but…who cares what she likes.

"Hello, Molly," I said breathlessly, getting the idea from Alan to place the luggage down at my feet. She smiled widely at me before gesturing to a winded Alan.

"And him? He got a name?"

"Alan, ma'am—Molly, I mean, I mean Molly."

"Well, aren't you two sweet?" she laughed as the elevator operator opened the metal gates back up. That was quite a fast trip. I picked up the luggage at my feet and followed this Molly character out of the elevator, Alan at my heels. Where are we going, anyway? I glanced over my shoulder at Alan, whose probably wondering the same thing. I kept my eyes on Molly Brown as we took a left down a first-class corridor, another left, and then another right—I already feel lost on this ship. I need a labeled map, I think. That would be a great deal of help! We took a right and Molly stopped, almost making me fall into her, and Alan into me, as a chain reaction. "Ah, here we are!" She took a key from her very large handbag and unlocked the door, before stepping in. "Come on in!"

We took a few steps in, and I moved out of the doorway to let Alan through. He practically threw the bags to the floor and I shot him a look. He can't do that to her luggage! The luggage is worth more than both of our salaries, I've decided. It's absolutely gorgeous. As I placed the bags down, I began to look around the room and I'm surprised I didn't fall over. The room is immaculate. I never really got a chance to look at the other rooms when Alan and I were carrying luggage—I kept my eyes to the floor. But, this room! There's an oak fireplace, beautiful sofas, and oak just everywhere on the walls—It looks so…_perfect_. Mr. Andrews has outdone himself with these rooms. My room, on the other hand, could use some work. Alan nudged me in the ribs.

"How nice is this?" he whispered into my ear.

"Nicer than we could afford," I replied. I glanced over at Molly, who was looking at the fireplace herself. "Would you want your luggage in a particular place, ma'am?" I asked her. She turned to me, smiling.

"It's _Molly_, darlin'," she corrected. "Molly's fine. And the luggage is fine just where it is for now. As long as it's not in the doorway, it's just fine." She threw her purse on the couch before walking past us. She opened a door to our right, and stepped in. And these rooms have more than one room! I never did mention that little fact! Of course, I should've expected it. It's first-class, after all.

"Is that it?" I asked Alan skeptically, looking up at him. "Do we leave once they walk away?"

"I guess. They usually say that's it." Alan took a few steps towards the room Molly had walked through. "May we bring you anything?" he asked her.

"No, no, I'm all set, sonny." She took a step back into the main room. I'm not even sure what to call this room. "Thanks, kids. I appreciate the help."

"Not a problem," Alan replied, taking my arm as he began to make his way towards the door. "Well, have a nice night." He has no idea of what else to say, I think. I'll just keep quiet.

"You too!" She's about to shut the door, when she stopped. "Wait one second, you two!" With a smile, she disappeared back into her suite. I glanced at Alan, whose just as baffled as me. Molly reappeared in the doorway, rummaging through her handbag. She pulled out two twenty dollar bills, handing one bill to me, the other to Alan.

"Oh, we can't take this," I told her simply, ripping the bill out of Alan's greedy hands, trying to give the money back. She laughed, pushing my hand away as she snapped her purse shut.

"Oh, yes you can," she told us. "You two carried all of that luggage. You deserve it."

"But—"

"Lucy," Alan laughed, "she wants us to have it, why not take it?" He took his tip from my palm. I shot him a look. He's the one who had to keep reminding me of all the regulations yesterday, and now, he's not going to bother following them? Taking tips is one of the holy rules!

"Take it and enjoy it," she continued. "I can't spend all of that money by myself. Might as well give it to you two deserving kids." Why does she keep calling us _kids_? I mean…Never mind.

"Thank you, Molly," I told her, with the slightest of a curtsey. Maureen.

"Have a nice night!" She shut the door, rather quickly and I glanced up at Alan, who was shoving the twenty into his pocket.

"What about regulation number three?" I questioned. He shrugged.

"I won't tell Maureen if you won't."

"You are _such_ a hypocrite!" I shouted at him as he began down the hallway. I quickly followed. "First, it's: Lucy, you need to know and memorize these rules, live them, and then: I won't tell Maureen if you won't!" He smiled over his shoulder at me, before quickening his pace. "Don't just smile at me and…" I stopped, realizing how fast my heart's beating. I'm practically running to catch up with him and I know he can slow down for little old me. "Alan! Wait a minute!" I managed to catch up with him, completely breathless as I caught him by the arm. "God, what's the rush?" I asked. He grinned at me.

"If I keep working, Maureen will leave me alone."

"If you keep _walking_, you mean?" I asked, stuffing the twenty dollar bill in the front pocket of my apron as he began to walk again. "If she wants to find you, she'll find you. She has the power, Alan. The power!"

"…And did I even thank you for helping me?" he asked, changing the subject, as we stepped into the elevator. "D-deck, please."

"Of course, sir," was the operator's only reply as he shut the gates in front of us.

"No, you didn't thank me," I told him. "Even though that's completely off-topic and—"

"Well, thank you, Lucy," he interrupted. I smiled.

"Don't thank me, thank our boss." He cocked an eyebrow at that, as the elevator went down.

"Why…?" his voice trailed off. "Wait a second." He chuckled. "Do I even want to know?" I shook my head.

"No, not really."

"Anyhow…Nice place, isn't it?" He sounds completely amazed by it all.

"Don't act all that amazed!" I laughed as the elevator operator opened the gates for us, now back at D-deck. "We'll be sick of this place by tomorrow, I'm sure."

"Be positive, Lucille Sullivan," he scolded at me. "Be positive!" In the midst of all the people passing between us, I can't even listen to his motivational speech. Not now, anyway. I followed him through the crowd, zigzagging through the mass of people, trying to sneak past them without causing too much of a fuss.

That's when I saw him: this absolutely handsome man. It was for a split moment as we passed through the crowd, but he smiled at me. I smiled back, probably out of habit. It's rude to have someone smile at you and for you to give them this blank look of confusion—even if you _are _confused. Time seemed to stop at that one moment, one second. I'm not sure why—but, it seemed, for that one lone second, the noise invading my ears had stopped and it was just us on this big ship, the ship I have no clue how to navigate. And to top it all off, I've never seen him before. But, as we passed, this strange feeling came over me. Weird. Oh, God, what if…what if that smile wasn't even directed at _me_!? Now, I'm embarrassed. Then again, maybe the smile was for me. It just seems odd for a complete stranger to smile at another complete stranger. Either way, that was really strange.

"Lucy!" Alan pulled me from the crowd by my wrist. "You okay?" he laughed. I glanced over my shoulder to see if I could get another look at that handsome stranger, just as the sounds around us began to fill my senses again. "Luce?" I turned to Alan as he dropped my wrist. "You okay?" he repeated.

"Yeah," I managed to say, "I'm, I'm fine."

"You look a little shell-shocked," he noted aloud. "Too many people, I think, for you." He took my wrist again, with that dumb smile of his.

"What?" I asked, not having been listening, as he began to drag me to God knows where.

"Keep walking, keep walking…" he hissed nervously.

"What? Why?" I asked, looking back over my shoulder. Are we running from a phantom?

"Boss at three 'o' clock," he whispered to me. I groaned. I want to see that stranger again, I don't want to deal with _her_. I barely got a good look at him, but…I glanced over at the crowd near the elevators again, only to find the crowd to have dissipated and that nice-looking man completely gone. It's not like I would be able to pick him out of a line-up, anyway. I don't think I'd be able to recognize him. I have no idea what he was wearing, I have no idea what else he looks like besides that smile of his—but, he did have the sweetest smile. He seemed like he was in shape, I think, but the smile was what got to me the most. It was all that I saw.

It was nice to not have been seen as a verbal whipping post, even if I was dressed up to the neck in White Star Line gear. I sighed. When's a nice man like that ever going to really smile at me the way he did? It was probably just a smile of courtesy and nothing else. And even if I am reading into it, a girl has a right to dream. Right? And even if it was a hallucination…which is quite likely, since all I'm breathing in is lead paint…Huh, lead paint. No wonder I'm seeing things!


	6. The Royal Request

Just pick up the breakfast dishes, put them on that rolling cart, and keep your mouth shut. That's how much I've learned in the past few hours awake on Titanic. We had stopped at Queenstown earlier this morning, and now, we are on our way to America. Thankfully, no more stops. And as the last of the _royalty_, as I lovingly refer to them as, began to exit the café, I sighed an enormous breath of relief. I feel as if they're always talking about the staff aboard. Huh, that must be because they always are. They're so rude for rich folks. You'd think they'd have some manners.

I went to the next table and placed the White Star Line china on the proper shelf on the cart. All I've heard, from last night, anyway, was how nobody on this quote-on-quote "bloody liner" can put the dishes and silverware in their proper places on the carts for the dishwashers and other kitchen staff. As if it's my job to make their lives a tad bit easy! Well, I'd like to see any one of those men in the kitchen staff try to lace up a corset! I think they'd realize how easy their jobs are compared to mine after a day in my shoes.

This morning, at seven sharp, I had to tie at least fifteen first-class women into their corsets. Thankfully, many of them have their only maids aboard, but some don't—and that's where I come in. I get the privilege of choking them into whalebone just because they like to torture themselves. One day, corsets will be something of the past and once they are, whoever manages to get rid of them once and for all, I owe them my life. Granted, some of the first-class women are nice enough, but it's not a sincere nice, it's a pity nice. Even though I work for the White Star Line, I really don't like pity. I don't need it. Where's that nice Molly Brown when I need her?

I placed the four untouched glasses, filled with water, onto the top shelf of the cart. I can't believe they wash untouched glass. It seems like such a waste. I'm not kitchen staff, because if I were, I'd just wipe the glasses clean if they weren't drunken out of and that would be that. I wonder who their boss is, in the kitchen. It's not Maureen, I'm sure. It can't be. She's too busy shouting at me. She doesn't have time to worry about other staff members! …And how Alan is able to get off the hook in dealing with Maureen, I don't know. I can't for the life of me, figure out how he does it! Besides, she's too busy finding any way she can to terminate me, Maureen Kexington. She hates me. She doesn't just hate everyone—She hates me with a passion and since I'm new…I'm new meat for her. She hasn't wore me down yet, but she's really getting there. I'm steps away from insanity.

"Lucille!" I jumped, the water from the glass in my hand spilling all over me, as I heard Maureen's footsteps some stomping towards me. How does she always seem to find me!? I quickly wiped my wet hands, placing the now empty glass onto the cart and said a quick prayer before turning to face Satan.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, with a nod.

"Are you almost done?" she questioned. I nodded.

"Almost, ma'am."

"Good, because people are expecting to be served on the deck in a timely fashion." Didn't they just have food and tea? Damn it. Harold Lowe was right: people are demanding when they're on a ship. Do they think they're on vacation or something? They don't even tip—Molly Brown aside, of course. "Before they die is what they expect, Lucille."

"Of course, ma'am."

"They didn't pay all of this money to board the grandest ship in the world to wait for what they want." Maybe she should get it for them, instead of barking at me to get whatever they want for them. Do I have the word SLAVE stamped on my forehead? No, that's the dumb bonnet. That says slave loud and clear. "I want their needs met."

"But, ma'am, I—"

"No, buts, Lucille," she quipped. "What's regulation number two?" Well, regulation number one has to deal with the passenger always being right—"Do I need to get the handbook?" she asked, as if threatening me with the idea of a paperback. I shook my head.

"No."

"No, _what_?" I managed not to sigh. Correct me one more time, I swear…

"No, Ms. Kexington."

"And regulation number two?" This is in her imaginary handbook, I know, but she won't give up unless I say it. I do know the rule, but…She's never going to be happy with me. It's decided.

"Whatever the passenger wants, the passenger gets," I mumbled.

"What was that?" she asked, irritated, putting a hand to her ear. I could hear snickers of laughter and glancing over her shoulder, I could see a few well-dressed first-class women holding tea cups and giggling at me. Great. Don't blush, Lucy—Sure, this is embarrassing, but this is only for a few more days and then you can find yourself a newspaper and look in the Help Wanted section, and find a better job than this…

"Whatever the passenger wants, the passenger gets," I said, my voice echoing across the café. Maureen smiled, completely satisfied at having crushed my self-confidence, as if I have any left!

"Exactly. If they want their tea, they want it _now_. They're not going to wait for it, they're not going to wait for some stewardess to come around and—"

"Ma'am," I interrupted, "you _told_ me to come in here and help." She stopped.

"I did?" I nodded. Oh, trust me, you did. "Well, you're relieved. Go get some beverages for those dehydrated passengers."

"Of course, Ms. Kexington." I brushed past her and when my feet hit the deck outdoors, I froze. Water. Water, water, everywhere. On all sides of Titanic, was just water. I had managed to stay indoors for the beginning of this trip, finding my way down long corridors that all look _exactly_ the same, but not now. I have to be on the deck to get whatever someone _on_ the deck wants. I can't tell them to go inside because the new stewardess is absolutely petrified of water. I wish I could.

I kept myself close to the wall that led to the inside as I made my way down the deck, the waves of the ocean hitting the side of the ship making me jumpy. Alright, Lucy, calm yourself. You're nowhere near the water, why make everyone think you're insane? Besides the fact that I am insane, I can't have someone know about this irrational fear…Maureen and—Well, she just has it out for me, I know it. Alan may think I'm just reading into her too much, but she _does_ have it out for me. And besides, I can't lose my job. I have yet to get a paycheck!

I pushed myself away from the wall and began down the deck, trying to deep breathe all the way. I just can't look over the railing, that's all, and then, I should be fine. I touched my cheeks and sure enough, they're burning red. I can't believe an employer can embarrass her employee like that without any repercussions. Isn't there a handbook for her to follow? If I didn't need the money so damn badly, I'd quit. But, Jonathan. Even if I'm being verbally abused, which I am, I can't afford to look for another job right now. I need a paycheck to hold things over so I can quit this damn company once and for all, and search for another place of employment. Maybe I could find a nice little job at a small sewing shop and become a tailor or something. That plan would work flawlessly…if only I could sew.

"Oh, it's about time! Stewardess! Stewardess!" About three feet away from me sit two women in two deck chairs next to one another. One of them is gesturing to me, waving for me as if they're waving for a taxi. I could always _jump_ overboard. I glanced over at the railing as I forced my feet to make my way to the blanketed ladies.

"Yes, ma'am?" I asked.

"We're just famished and would like some cucumber sandwiches, please." My jaw must've dropped, because they looked at each other with raised eyebrows. "Is that going to be a problem?" she asked skeptically, her nose still high in the air. Seagulls, where art thou?

"I don't think so, ma'am," I said, "I'll see what I can do." I turned on my heel, before muttering, "Maybe you can choke on the damn cucumbers while you're at it."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" the woman questioned. I shook my head.

"Of course not, ma'am." I quickly began to make my way back towards the café, trying not to laugh. I can't believe I just did that. I'm getting a little bit too brave for my own tastes. I swung open the door and quickly ran for the kitchen, Maureen's back to me as she's now clearing off the tables instead of me. "Think we can have some cucumber sandwiches?" I called into the kitchen as I took a step inside. Heat hit me immediately and I practically fell over. People are bustling in and out, but only one person acknowledged my presence.

"Are you serious?" Percy Ball, one of Titanic's many dishwashers asked skeptically, glancing over his shoulder at me. Sweet man. Another White Star Line slave.

"I wish I wasn't," I told him, with a small smile. "Where's the cook when we need him?" Percy shrugged a shoulder. "He's my only hope."

"Lucy, making sandwiches doesn't take a brain surgeon." Alan. He came bursting through the revolving door, holding a few trays of used and dirty china. He's always around, too, just like Maureen. They never go away!

"Can you make cucumber sandwiches?" I asked him. He nodded, placing the trays beside Percy, who sighed heavily.

"It's not that hard, Luce. Cucumbers, bread, and voila, you have sandwiches."

"It's more difficult than that!" Percy laughed.

"What do you have to do?" I questioned. "Do you know how to make them?"

"Who needs the cucumber sandwiches, anyway?" Alan asked, fixing the hat on his head. "I thought you hated cucumber."

"Alan, passengers want them!" I huffed.

"Can't you just give them cucumber and bread, and say, here ya go?"

"No, you can't." I wish you could do that.

"I thought Auguste put some mix in the icebox last night," Percy said, his voice trailing off.

"You need _mix_?" Alan asked skeptically.

"The sandwiches take a mix of cream cheese, mayonnaise and salad dressing, it needs to be refrigerated overnight and—"

"Where's the icebox?" I asked, interrupting Percy's little speech.

"In the corner."

"If he did make the mix, Auguste is a complete angel!" I laughed at the desperation in my voice, opening up the white icebox as cold air hit me. "What should it look like?"

"It should be in a bowl, looks a little white…" Percy shrugged at me. "I really don't know."

"You're not that much help," I told him flatly.

"I'm a dishwasher, not a cook!"

"Well, you might as well be—Oh!" I see it. I pulled the bowl out of the icebox and slammed the door, holding it up for Percy to inspect. "This it?"

"Must be." He's a lot of help. I went for an empty beige table, where the cooks must prepare the food. I can see vegetable shavings across the table, on multiple cutting boards, all stamped with the White Star Line red flag. I took off the wrapping on the bowl and God…this smells really weird.

"You _think_ this is it?" I asked skeptically. "Are you sure?"

"Oh it is, I can smell it over here! I'd recognize that smell anyone!" Percy chuckled as Alan came towards the bowl of doom, holding his nose.

"Can you believe they eat this crap?" he asked me. I giggled at that.

"No, I can't." I sighed. "Alright, Percy?"

"Mm-hmm?" he asked, now wiping dry a plate from Alan's tray.

"Now what?"

"Do you want me to just make them?" he asked, wiping his hands.

"Can you?"

"I would, but…I'm full of dirty food. I'll have to walk you through it." Alan brushed past me and went for another tea pot, before grabbing some tea bags in a cupboard above him. "Now, there's French bread on the bottom shelf. You see it?" I glanced below me and sure enough, there's a somewhat-cut loaf of bread on the middle shelf, near some carrots and such.

"Yeah." I pulled it off the shelf and put it on the table in front of me.

"Cut a few slices in one-inch pieces."

"Knives?"

"Here." Alan handed me a bread knife before going back to his tea pot. I sighed, wiping the knife with my apron. God knows where it's been—This kitchen's full of men. The sanitary conditions in here must be in a shambles. Where are the women when we need them? No one's dropped dead from the food, have they? Not yet, anyway. Not yet.

I held onto the loaf and began to cautiously saw the first piece. I can't cut bread. Why couldn't this have been cut for me? Life can never be easy. As I sliced, my mind began to wander and I began to look around the kitchen. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling and it looks as if this kitchen has been in operation for weeks instead of not even twenty-four hours. Until.

"Ow!" Looking down at my hand, I had sliced open my index finger. And these knives are supposed to be dull! Damn it.

"You okay?" Alan asked, not even bothering to make sure I'm not on the floor.

"No." I paused, for effect. "I'm bleeding, but I'm okay," I told him sarcastically, wrapping my finger in my apron. Who cares if I stain it. I bleed for this job. I held the linen closer to my finger, if nothing else, to stop the bleeding. I can't believe I actually cut myself with a bread knife! How am I going to explain this wound? Nobody's going to see it, anyway, so when would I have to actually _explain_ it? "Anyone have a First-Aid kit?"

"Sorry, Luce, no can do," Percy told me. I sighed heavily. This is going to be one long day in the depths of Hell.

"And why not?" I asked, irritated.

"No First-Aid kits in here, my dear!" Alan laughed.

"They're a fire hazard," Percy explained, as if this was no big deal. My finger hurts!

"And if you got burned?" I questioned, squeezing my finger once more before glancing at it. It's fine. I can't believe I'm bleeding this much over a damn bread knife. I brushed hair from my eyes. God, I hate this damn bonnet. "Alright, Percy, do I have enough bread?" He looked over at my surprisingly not-blooded white bread and nodded.

"It'll do."

"Now what?"

"Make the sandwiches. Spread the mix on one slice of the bread, and then put the cucumbers on…"

"One thing at a time!" I laughed, beginning to search for another knife. Oh, here we go. I found one abandoned near the utensil drawer and wiped it off quickly. I put some of the mix that smells kind of revolting onto my knife and picking up one slice of bread, I began to spread it as evenly as I could. I can't spread butter with a knife, either, did I mention that? "How many should I make?" I asked, placing down the bread and the knife back into the mixing bowl. Let's not cut myself again. "I don't want to overdo it."

"How many people there?" Percy asked.

"Two."

"Well…" He paused. "A few. You have to chop it, anyway. The sandwiches are supposed to be small."

"Okay, Percy, help me here. I put the mix on the bread. Now, what?"

"Cut up the cucumber slices, about an inch thick. Place it inside the sandwich with some dill, and cut it in fours. Make sure the crust is off and then, you're basically set."

"_Basically_?" I asked skeptically. Alan began to laugh. "Where's that chef? He should be making this! Not me! I'm a stewardess, for God's sake!"

"We all do things we don't want to, Luce," Alan felt the need to point out. I shook my head. I can't believe I'm doing this.

"I'm such a sucker," I mumbled. "I can't even _believe_ I'm doing this." Alan grinned at me, placing napkins on his tray before lifting it up. He began to walk towards the door, but stopped when he reached me.

"You're making quite the mess," he observed, sarcastic.

"Oh, shut up!" I huffed. "You just push my last buttons, I swear!" I held up the butter knife to him, gesturing to my throat. "Don't make me hurt you."

"Should I be frightened?"

"Damn frightened," I concluded, with a nod.

"I should be frightened over the dull butter knife?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes." I placed the knife down, trying not to laugh at his comment. And even if I am mad at him, I can't stay mad at him for long. The ship is only so big, after all. I hate that man, I really do. He brushed past me and out the revolving door and I turned my attention back to Percy. "Alright, Percy," I sighed, "before I slice myself again, what do I need to do again?" He sighed, as if he was trying _not _to get angry with me. "I'm sorry," I apologized, "I'm not a good listener."

"Here." He wiped his hands and opened up a cupboard a few cabinets down from him, above us. He pulled out what looked to be a few cookbooks, thumbing through them quickly. Every book has little bookmarks in it, that look to be made of cheap napkins from below deck—what we all get to use, and as he took up the second book, he snapped his fingers. "Here we are!" He jogged towards me and placed the open book to my right. "The instructions are right here." I shot him a look. My jaw dropped.

"I can't believe there was a cookbook with this in it!" I exclaimed angrily. "I cannot believe, this is ridiculous, me taking instructions from you, while this whole time—"

"All the great cookbooks have it in them, Lucy," he interrupted.

"Thanks for taking it out, right _after _I needed it!" I shook my head, before gesturing to his sink, the butter knife back in my hand. "Go wash your dishes, my little friend!" I tried not to laugh, but I didn't meant with success. "Go on, before I have to cause you harm!" He ran towards the sink, almost frightened.

"They should _not_ let women around sharp objects," he muttered, picking up a dishcloth.

"What was that?" I asked, smiling, as I hit the butter knife on the cutting board in front of me. The sound echoed through the kitchen. "Like to share with the class?"

"Not really, no." He smiled at me, coyly over his shoulder and we began to laugh.

"Dear God, Lucille, put down that knife _right now_." My heart leapt from my chest into my throat. That was after it stopped beating. Maureen. How could I not recognize her? She's the only one who calls me Lucille, besides my own mother. Doesn't she have anything better to do than torture me? Is she waiting for me to snap? It seems quite likely, since I have a knife in my possession. A dull knife, sure, but a knife just the same. Much to my better judgement, I put the knife down and turned to my employer. "Just _what_ are you doing?" I wish she would go away, because she's always around.

"Making cucumber sandwiches," I managed to say.

"Why?"

"Because a few passengers on deck wanted them."

"And the chef isn't doing this because…?"

"We can't find him," Percy felt the need to interject. Maureen sighed, agitated as she pushed her way to the table I've been working at, practically knocking me over.

"Well, you're not doing such a _horrible_ job," she noted aloud, holding up a sandwich for closer inspection. I know, the crusts still have to be cut off, but…Did she doubt me or was what she said somewhat of a compliment? "Have you ever made cucumber sandwiches before?" I want to lie, and say I have, but I know lies always come back ten-fold.

"No, ma'am."

"Well, then." She smiled, as if she was a gloating mother. "Finish up and make all of them look this nice when you make them. Don't disappoint me now. Just make sure the crusts are cut off. The passengers expect only the best!" She forced her way past me and out the kitchen door. I let out the large breath I had been holding in since she had made her presence known and closed my eyes momentarily. I opened them to find Percy staring at me, a dish in his hand.

"Is she always like that?" he asked.

"Like _how_?" Bossy, dictator-like, obsessive compulsive…

"Neurotic?" I nodded. She's not just neurotic, she's _insane_.


	7. It's a Disaster

It's very disheartening to try to do your absolute best and still, it just isn't enough. No matter how hard I try, it's never good enough for that employer of mine. She was on my case all day. She followed me all day long, telling me what I was doing wrong. I wished and still wish she had just _done _what she was telling me to do. It would've taken much less time and would've made everyone happy. Especially me! She just wasn't happy with anything I did and that made me feel absolutely worthless.

I was forced to take the dogs outside on the deck around eleven this morning, and of course, the dogs either dragged me across the entire ship, while others wouldn't move. It was a nightmare. Alan, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble at all. Men. They think they can do everything with no problems and in this case—that was true. Alan did a much better job than me concerning the dogs. They all just hung over the rails, anyway, sticking their heads between the white bars, looking down at the water, while I kept my back turned, humming to myself—trying to keep my mind off of that damn water. It's very difficult, trying not to think about water, when all you hear is water.

I shook my head of the thought, even though I know the water is still outside, just threatening to pull me down with it. Strong currents, freezing water…all things that could pull me down and make me never see the surface again. I wonder how long someone can hold their breath underwater. Not long, I'm sure. It's not as if I'm going to go to some lake and ask someone. More than likely, they'd throw me in just to watch me struggle. Granted, they wouldn't necessarily _know_…

Anyway, it's been dark for a few hours now. I'm not sure what time it is, but I'm exhausted. Serving inconsiderate people and dealing with their pampered animals is enough to make me jump overboard. Then, and only then, would I sink to the bottom. At this point, though, I really don't have the energy to physically _jump_ from Titanic. The fall alone would break my neck. Lovely thoughts, aren't they? Think positively, Lucy. Great, now I sound like that no good Alan…

And yet here I am again, working like a slave, in the first-class dining hall of Titanic, putting dishes, silverware, and glasses onto those handy rolling carts. If I hear one more complaint from the kitchen staff, I will knife them all. All they did was complain during the lunch hour about the dishes and such not being on the right shelf on the carts. I yelled at someone, I'm not really sure who it was, but they were complaining rather loudly and it was making life that much harder. I thought about smashing their head with a plate…then thought better of it. Maureen would fire me for that. Purposely breaking White Star Line property, yet another regulation, could cost you your paycheck or your job. I'd rather have the latter.

Either way, I hope everyone in first-class had a nice meal, because they are such pigs! Oh, their mothers, what kind of example are these people setting for the rest of us? I cannot believe how disgusting these people are. There are napkins scattered over table lamps, the carpets, the chairs, food is absolutely everywhere, and I'm scared to look up. I'm expecting food to be hanging from the ceiling at this rate. I looked up from the cart to the rest of the dining hall in front of me and sighed. It's going to be a long night. The room is too big, there's too much room for people to dine! I think over five-hundred people could dine in here, give or take a few hundreds. Mr. Andrews, Mr. Andrews…What was he thinking?

I took a tray on the bottom shelf of the cart and placed it onto a messy table to my left. I began to pile the china onto the tray. Teapots, plates, and utensils go on the first shelf of the rolling carts, I know. Maureen had to keep reminding me of this, even though I wasn't the one messing up the dishwashing ritual for the kitchen staff to begin with. All of the glasses, I now see, getting back on-topic—are still filled with wine. Bunch of drunks. A bunch of _rich_ drunks. I wish I could be that rich and drunk, anytime I pleased…I placed another glass onto the tray before lifting it.

Okay, china is much heavier than I expected. I'm not that strong of a person, yet as the tray teetered in my arms, I began to slowly make my way towards the cart. Come on, Lucy, come on, you can make—My arms gave way and the tray fell to the floor, along with all of the china in one loud bang. It all happened so quickly and then, something in me snapped.

I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm tired, maybe because of Maureen, maybe because of my mere existence, but I screamed. I screamed so loud, my voice echoed across the room. I whirled around, picking up a plate. I held it high above my head, about to throw it across the room to release my frustration, but my arm fell to my side, against my own will, and tears formed in my eyes. Oh. My. God. This is going to come out of my paycheck and, and Jonathan…I crumbled to the floor and began to sob, crying uncontrollably. The plate fell out of my grasp as I sobbed into my hands.

As if my day could get any worse! And here I am, sobbing over china! But, people have been fired over this and I can't get fired! I just, I just can't! I need the money and…I looked up momentarily from my hands to the million pieces of china in front of me, the tray lingering on the floor nearby. It's totally broken and nobody can fix it. And I'm going to lose my God-awful job! I picked up two pieces of the broken china and attempted to fit the pieces together. They don't fit. I began to cry harder than before, throwing the pieces across the room, as my dumb stewardess hat fell from my hair. I threw that, too. What the Hell does it matter now!?

"Are you alright?" asked a voice. An unfamiliar voice, an accented voice, possibly Scottish, began to make their way towards me from behind. I forced a nod, dropping my hands from my face. I just want whoever this is to go away and let me wallow in my broken china. "I heard a loud bang and—"

"I just had a little accident," I managed to choke out, tears welling up in my eyes. I really don't want to cry in front of a stranger, even if I did just have a breakdown. The footsteps got closer and I saw two legs come out from behind me. I didn't dare look up. Now I'm embarrassed. I wiped my eyes as more tears escaped my control.

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" the voice continued to probe. A man, obviously. A woman would never come help a fellow woman in distress. That's just how ladies are. He kneeled down beside me, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"No."

"Well, I'll help you pick it up," he offered. I shook my head. He was nice enough to make sure everything was okay, I'm not going to take advantage of his kindness.

"No, no, it's my problem, not yours..."

"I'm here now. Might as well have me—" He reached out his hand to pick up some pieces of china, but I grabbed his wrist.

"No."

"Now, don't be stubborn, I want to help..."

"I don't want your help!" I screeched. I began to cry again, harder than before, and for some reason, my head found its' way onto this stranger's shoulder. "I don't want your help," I repeated into the fabric of his overcoat, shaking my head. I don't mean it, I'm not even sure why I said it. He stopped at my action, unsure of what to do. I can't _believe_ I'm crying into some stranger's neck! But, for some reason, it's somewhat comforting. He's got broad shoulders, anyway—great for crying mental patients like me. And for some reason, I feel safe. I'm not sure why, who knows who this man actually is, but I _do_ feel safe.

"Alright, alright," he said soothingly, wrapping his arms around me, "it's okay. It's just a little mess. There, it'll be okay…" I shook my head.

"No, it won't be," I whimpered.

"And why not?" he questioned. "It's just china." I began to cry even more so than before. Maureen. Maureen, she's the reason why it won't be okay. "Alright, alright," he repeated, "We won't talk about dishware anymore." He paused, taking in a deep breath. "Shh, shh, it's okay…"

"No, I just—" I gestured to the china, continuing to sob. "I just can't afford to lose my job over this! I just can't!"

"Who said you're going to lose your job?" How can this man be so _calm_? I'm having a breakdown! I can't even answer him. I'm just too upset. "Now, just take a deep breath for me, okay?" he asked of me. I managed to take a breath in, and let it out. "Come on now, we'll stand. No use sitting on this dirty floor." He helped me up, my arms having found their place wrapped around his neck. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. "Here we are. No need to cry." He lifted up my head to see him, since he is so much taller than me. I can't even look him in the eye, I'm so embarrassed. I just want to cry. "Let's dry your eyes and…" He wiped my cheeks gently. "It's just china, you know." He handed me the little handkerchief and that's when I looked up at him.

I had to stop myself from keeling over. Oh. My. God. It's one of Titanic's officers! It's not one I know, it's not Harold Lowe, but he's an officer. He's much too young to be the Captain, but, oh—A brief pause on both of our parts, until my jaw dropped.

"Oh, God, you're an officer!" I cried, hiding my face in my hands, unlocking my arms around his neck. He chuckled as I turned crimson.

"That a problem?" he asked, unfazed.

"Oh my God," was all I was able to say as he pulled out an nearby chair, sitting me down in it. I wiped my eyes, and I know he's just watching me, waiting for me to snap again. But, either way, he's a bloody officer! I'm so embarrassed, I now _want_ to be thrown overboard. Someone, for God's sake, throw me overboard. Please! I looked down at my feet at what looks to be miles of china and sighed.

"Don't be embarrassed," he told me.

"Why not?" I mumbled, pushing hair from my eyes.

"I've seen a lot worse than this." He gestured to the china and I sniffled, looking up from the handkerchief to him.

"_Really_?" I asked skeptically.

"No, not really." He smiled and I had to smile at that. Joke in the middle of a crisis, that usually helps. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down beside me. "But, I have seen some things that may be just as bad as this." He leaned in closer to me. "And just so you know, none of them got fired."

"Oh, you don't know my boss," I told him, shaking my head. "I'll definitely lose my job over this." My eyes welled up with more tears, but I held them back.

"I'm sure you won't," he reassured me, still trying with no success to comfort me. I can't even answer to that comment. I don't know if I'll get fired or not. He placed a hand on my shoulder before squeezing it. "I could talk to her, if you'd like."

"What could you say?" I questioned, getting ready to cry again. He shrugged.

"Honestly? I don't know. But, I do know this: any officer on board usually has a little bit of power." He smiled at me, a true smile, and my heart dropped. That's him. The stranger in the crowd from last night! That nice smile guy, that was him. He was an officer last night and he's still an officer. He doesn't recognize me, but I sure as Hell recognize him. It just registered, just clicked and for some reason, that made me sigh a breath of relief. So, I _wasn't_ crying on an absolute, complete stranger, at least I've seen this stranger before. So, then, he's not really a stranger. "Your boss can't be that bad." I shot him a look.

"She's horrible," I sniffled, shaking my head. "You just don't know her, you never had to work for her. She's a tyrant. And she has fired people over this sort of thing. She's just a…a…" I'm at a loss for words.

"A tyrant?" he suggested. I nodded. I shouldn't even be talking about my boss to a stranger. My luck, Maureen and him are probably married. Wouldn't that just figure? I looked at his hands, folded on his lap and there's no wedding ring. Maybe that's her brother—Oh, God, I hope not.

"I was just trying to do a good job, and…" My voice trailed off as my eyes fell on the china once again, more tears coming to me.

"You _are_ doing a good job," he tried to reassure me, putting his hand back on my shoulder. I held back my still-impending tears, shaking my head.

"No, I'm not." He doesn't even know horrible I am at this.

"Oh, yes you are. You are one dedicated White Star Line employee, let me tell you. I have colleagues who aren't as dedicated as you."

"I need the money," I said simply.

"Who doesn't?" He grinned at me, before gesturing to the china. "And besides, a few dishes are nothing to cry over. They have plenty of china aboard." I hiccuped.

"Now, are you serious?" I asked.

"Yes." He paused, glancing back down at the china before turning his attention to me. "Are you okay?" he asked. I took in a sharp breath, trying not to slap him. How can he ask that!? Now, I'm not happy.

"Do I look okay?" I asked sarcastically. I stopped. I can't believe I said that! He's just trying to be nice. I'm so mean. "Oh, I'm sorry, that was stupid, I didn't mean that—" He laughed as I hiccuped again. I guess he doesn't take me too seriously. I'm just another White Star Line slave, and we're all in the same boat. Literally.

"Either way, I take that as a no, you're _not_ alright. That's okay." He took an unused water glass from the table behind us and placed it in my hands. "Take a sip. It may help with those hiccups of yours." I gripped the glass in my hand, trying not to throw it across the room. "Go on," he urged. He sounds like a demanding parent, doesn't he? A loving parent, but definitely a demanding one.

I took a small sip of the lukewarm water, handing him back the glass. I sniffled, wiping my nose with my sleeve, still not wanting to look this sweet man in the eye. He was kind enough to come in here and make sure everything was okay—and he got the pleasure of finding me, a frustrated White Star Line employee…who has had her limit of her employer telling her what to do. I licked my lips, unsure of what to say. I know I ought to thank him, but all I want to do is hide. I'm still completely embarrassed. Crying and hugging a complete stranger is something new for me.

"Well, I might as well introduce myself." I glanced at him, as he held out his hand. "Will." I took his hand, shaking it slightly.

"Lucy." We dropped hands, myself unsure of what else to say. He glanced around the room, at the table behind us and began to fiddle around with utensils I had yet to pick up yet. I sighed. I still have to finish this damn room up, no matter how tired and frustrated I may be. I hate my job, I really do. I rubbed my eyes, wiping away the remainder of my tears. No more crying. That's a plan and a promise I plan on keeping. I placed the handkerchief still in my palm onto the table behind me, straightening out the white apron I hate so much. "Well…" What else am I to say? He nodded at me.

"So…" He gestured to the mess at our feet. "Are you planning on picking this up?" I shrugged.

"If the mood should strike." I smirked at him, after seeing the shocked expression on his face.

"Would you like me to help?" he asked. I nodded.

"I'd appreciate it." I didn't move for a moment or so, merely trying to collect myself. I sighed, shaking my head. "I don't even care about it now. The china, I mean."

"Says the girl who cries over it," he said sarcastically, standing up. He offered me his hand and although I hesitated, I took it and stood. And in silence, we began to pick up the pieces of china, him placing the pieces on the tray I had also dropped, balancing it on the chair I had been sitting on—while I hid the pieces in my apron, making sure nothing fell onto the floor again. Alan is cleaning up after passengers from now on. "Have you been working with White Star Line long?" I glanced over at him, surprised he was even asking me something.

"A few months," I answered. "Although it feels like five _long_ years…"

"Hmm," was his only response.

"Why?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised."

"Does every White Star Line employee have a breakdown?" I asked.

"They hit that stage and usually pass it by a year on the job."

"I hope I never make it a year here," I mumbled.

"Don't like it?" I didn't respond and he chuckled. "Can't say I blame you."

"I don't particularly like serving people."

"I've noticed." I picked up the last piece of china and stood as he did.

"What are we going to do with the pieces?" I asked, changing the subject. "I can't have my boss see them, she'll flip—" He grinned, picking up the tray from the chair and brushed past me, towards the door to the outside. "Wait, where are you going?" I shouted. I really don't want to go after him, but…I suppose I don't have a choice. I held onto my apron tighter than before and ran after him as he hit the deck. I almost stopped, but managed to keep my feet going. Water, the water. And of course, he just _has_ to go for the railing, doesn't he? Yep. Damn it. He leaned over the railing and threw the pieces overboard in one swift movement. My jaw dropped. "Oh my God! That has to be illegal!" He looked over his shoulder at me, smiling.

"I'm just giving back to the environment." He threw the tray overboard, too! I _cannot_ be seeing this. I must be hallucinating, I have to be. Do I have a fever…? "Come here."

"What?"

"Come here," he instructed. "You can have the honor of throwing _your_ pieces out." But, the water…and… "Come on!" he laughed. "It's just the rail. It's not going to give in and toss you overboard." Can he read my mind? I began to slowly but surely shuffle my way towards the railing as my heart began to beat faster. With each passing second, I can feel my heart making its' way up to my throat. "Come on, don't be shy." He took my arm and pulled me towards him once I was within his reach. "Just toss it."

"Just _toss_ it?" I asked skeptically. He nodded.

"Just throw it!"

"Are you serious?"

"Never been so serious in my entire life."

"No, no, no." I shook my head, multiple times for emphasis. "There has to be some international sea law about this sort of thing." I glanced at the china in my lap, picking up a piece. "I could always try to glue the pieces back together." He began to laugh. "What? It's worth a try! It's White Star Line and expensive—"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Fine." I took in a deep breath. He's going to just keep pressing until I throw the china overboard, I now realize. That's what he wants. I owe that much to him, I suppose. "Fine." I picked up my apron and refusing to look down, refusing to listen to my inner instinct, I threw the china into the sea.


	8. I Owe You, You Owe Me

"Lucy, my girl! Just the woman I wanted to see!" Oh, it's too early to hear anyone calling my name. I forced my eyes up from the floor, my arms full of dishware, to see Mr. Andrews running towards me, almost knocking over two women who were just walking about in the process. As for me? Alan and I are trying to pick up the mess the royalty had made from breakfast, and I don't know about him, but I'm exhausted. And as usual, here I am, working like a dog and so is Alan. With only one cart, we've been trudging in and out of the café to the kitchen since eight this morning. And I didn't sign up to be a waiter! I signed up to tie women into corsets and God forbid I don't want to take away any more dirty kitchenware—God forbid!

Either way, here comes Mr. Andrews. As if life couldn't be any more difficult, here he comes. He must want something. Oh, I sound so cruel! Mr. Andrews is such a nice man. But…I'm sure he wants something.

"Sir," I said, with a nod as he reached me, almost knocking _me_ down. No, no more broken company property, please! He didn't wait to catch his breath.

"I was hoping you had seen my notebook," he said, breathless. I raised an eyebrow.

"Notebook? Sorry, no." I brushed past him, going for the next table. And he's not giving up, since he's following me. He's not taking no for an answer, obviously.

"It has a black leather cover, uh…what else does it look like?" he asked this of himself as he continued to follow me. Oh, please, just let me do my job. "I must've left it at dinner last night and now, I can't find it."

"Did you leave it in the smoking room?" I asked, trying to be polite. He smiled down at me.

"No." I stopped, shifting the weight of the glasses in my arms from my left side to my right.

"You sure?"

"Checked there."

"Did you check in the dining hall?" I asked, trying not to let my arms give way. "Where you ate?"

"Everything was already cleaned up and gone by the time I was able to check. That's where I thought you might be of some assistance."

"I haven't seen it," I said honestly.

"All of my notes were in there, too," he said aloud, before letting out a large sigh. "You know, I really need to learn to…" As he continued to talk, I tried to listen, honest, I did, but Alan's voice echoing towards me had caught my attention. He must be in the doorway of the café that leads onto the deck, or the doorway to the kitchen…either way, he sounds awfully bubbly, doesn't he? That's his usual happy morning attitude. But, he's talking _so_ loud…it's as if he wants me to hear him. Even though I'm used to his loud babbling, this time it's different. He wasn't talking to Percy or another fellow slave of the White Star Line, he was talking to someone I didn't recognize.

"She's a stewardess," said the unfamiliar voice.

"Really?" Alan asked skeptically. "Well, maybe I can help. What did you say she looked like again?"

"Blonde hair, petite, White Star Line steward uniform…" That's pretty general. A lot of stewardesses happen to be blonde, myself aside.

"And her name?"

"That, I can't remember." A pause. "I think it started with an L. Or was it a C? Maybe an L, that sounds about right. Lucinda, Linda, Lisa…"

"Lucy?" Alan suggested. A finger snap.

"Yes, that was it! Lucy!" _Me_?

"Nope, sorry, no stewardesses with that name." Oh my God. Alan! Don't lie to that poor man! I need to get Mr. Andrews off of my case. As sweet as he is, I need to find out who's looking for me. Right now. But, how…? I smiled. I got it.

"Black cover, you said?" I questioned Mr. Andrews. He nodded. "I'll keep an eye out for it, I promise." He sighed a breath of relief. That's what he wanted to hear all along, I bet.

"Oh, Lucy, I'd appreciate that. Thank you." I forced a nod. He already sounds appreciative and I haven't even found it yet.

"Would you excuse me?" I asked of him, placing down the dirty dishware in my arms. He nodded.

"Of course, of course." I made my way past him and followed the voices of both Alan and the stranger as they trailed off. I find Alan, leaning against the doorway that leads to the deck, his arms folded and a smirk across his face. "What the Hell is your problem?" I asked him angrily, slapping him on the arm.

"What are you talking about?"

"Who was here?"

"What?" I took a step towards him.

"Who was here, asking about _me_?" He smiled.

"Oh, _him_. God, Luce, you have the ears of a cat!" He laughed, and then shrugged. "I don't know who he was. Some officer."

"_Some officer_?"

"Yeah, _some officer_." I rolled my eyes.

"Could you be any more general?"

"He was some guy looking for you. He said his name was…What was it?" He snapped his fingers repeatedly in thought. "Something sea-related. Floor, wood…deck…dock…? Maybe dock…"

"Dock?" I questioned skeptically. He shrugged.

"I don't know, I just thought it was kind of a coincidence. You know, the ships all have _docks _and he was an officer with a name that was _dock_…" He's rambling.

"What did you say?" I interrupted. He stopped, before smiling at me.

"What did you _want_ me to say?"

"Hmm, that I existed would've been a good start!"

"Oh, you heard _that_?" I nodded.

"Who didn't hear that? You talk so loud!"

"I was just teasing. Don't get all excited and worked up on me now."

"Alan, I swear—" He put a finger to his lips.

"Lucy, shh."

"Oh, Alan, I swear to God—"

"Use your inside voice."

"Don't use that on me," I scolded. "Maureen around?"

"Don't want him to think you have a temper, do you?" he questioned.

"Does it look like I care?" He sighed.

"He said he had something of yours," he admitted.

"Now we're getting somewhere!"

"I offered to give it to you, but he probably thought I'd steal it or something…He said no thanks." I smiled at the sarcasm in his voice.

"Would he be wrong to think that?" Alan grinned, seemingly proud of himself.

"No." He paused, getting back on-topic. "Either way, I told him you were working and that he could wait until you had a free minute if he wanted to. I guess he didn't want to wait."

"Well, aren't you nice?" I said, patting him on the same shoulder I had just slapped minutes before. "…Telling him he could just _take_ a seat?"

"I know I am," he replied sarcastically, "you don't have to tell me twice. Oh, and before I forget." I nodded. "I'm not your secretary!"

"Go do your damn job!" I said angrily. He smiled. "And I'm not going to use my indoor voice. Damn it, what are you…" My voice trailed off as that nice officer from last night appeared behind Alan, over his left shoulder.

"Gonna finish what you have to say, Luce?" Alan asked, gesturing for me to continue. I snapped back.

"What are you, my mother?" I asked, finishing my statement. Alan looked over his shoulder and then to me, a large smile plastered across his face.

"I'm off." He brushed past me.

"Alan, I—" I sighed. He left me here with this officer, an officer whose name I can't even remember. What was it? As if Alan would ask that! That would be the _polite_ thing to do and is he polite? Not in the least. Why can't I have polite coworkers? Life doesn't work that way, that's why.

"And I was about to leave," he said, with a small laugh as I backed up into the café. "How are you, Lucy?" Well, at least he seems to know _my_ name. I shrugged as he stepped towards me.

"Fair. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm getting by." He pulled something out of his pocket and he looked up from his palm to me. "I found this on the floor last night, after stepping on it. I had a feeling it was yours." He handed me a White Star Line pin, one that is supposed to be on my apron. I looked down at my uniform to see that one of the two pins I usually wear is missing. It must've fallen off when I had my emotional breakdown last night.

"Oh, thank you." I undid the backing of the pin and quickly placed it where it used to be.

"I assume those pins are virtually indestructible." I nodded. "I _really_ stepped on it."

"The only way to get rid of them is to…" I smiled at him. "Throw them overboard. Anyway." I paused. This is awkward. Maybe even more awkward than crying in front of a stranger. No, it's not. "Thank you for bringing it back to me. My boss would have a fit if she knew I was walking around all morning without it!"

"I figured that." He paused, before gesturing around the café. "I just hope I didn't interrupt your morning too much."

"No, no. Normal routine." I went for the table behind him, since that's one of the few tables that has yet to be touched and began to collect up the linen napkins. Alan must've taken the pile of dishware I had collected already. He's too fast.

"Everyone seems pretty busy," he noted aloud. I managed a nod.

"_Very_ busy, actually. After breakfast, all of the dishes and everything else have to be taken away and washed." I gestured to the tables around us. He whistled.

"Wow."

"And the dishes just aren't going to walk themselves," I sighed. "Either way, it could take a little while." I laughed, brushing hair from my eyes. "It could just take us until tea, anyway." I paused, folding a napkin. If I make piles, it makes life just a tad bit easier.

"About tea…" his voice trailed off and I glanced up at him. "Would you care to join me for a cup later today?" Is he serious?

"Today?" He nodded.

"When else?" he asked, with a small smile.

"I, uh, I can't. I work during tea time."

"Well, we don't have to have tea at the exact same time as everyone else. I'm not as proper as the first-class passengers, where everything must be at the same time, everyday—"

"I can't," I said simply, interrupting his speech. "Thank you, though."

"Lunch?" Great, now he's not going to give up, either.

"I work then, too."

"Dinner?" I shook my head. Even if he's hanging by a thread of rejection, I can't say yes. I won't show up and that would hurt even more than saying no. "Let me guess: Work?" I nodded. "I think you deserve a break once in a while, don't you?" He lowered his voice. "Don't want to have a repeat of last night, do you?" I shook my head. No, I don't want a repeat, and I know my sanity is as stake as it is…but—

"I'm sorry," I apologized, "I just, I just _have _to work." Every waking hour of my life aboard this damn liner I have to work, when all I'd like is to have a minute to myself. I can see the disappointment on his face, but what am I to do? I know I owe him, he helped me conceal the evidence about the china, but I can't afford, literally—I _can't_ afford, to lose my job over a cup of tea or a meal. "I'd love to, sure, but my boss would never let me, ever in a million—"

"LUCILLE SULLIVAN!" We both jumped.

"…Ever in a million years," I finished with a whisper.

"That her?" he questioned. I forced a nod.

"How'd you guess?" Maureen. I took in a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for the worst. She wants to see me—obviously. Why else would she yell my name? She hates me. "Well," I breathed, "pray for me." I placed down the napkins and bracing it all, I took a few steps out onto the deck, assuming she's out here, before a hand grabbed my arm—pulling me towards them. Maureen. I looked up at her, and she does _not_ look happy. "Ma'am."

"Lucille, would you like to know what I woke up to this morning?" she questioned. Of course, if you'd like to share… "Well, I woke up this morning and went into the dining hall, only to find my feet crunching under broken china." Maybe she should lose some weight. "And then I go into the cabinets for the breakfast ware, and the dishes, the plates, the glasses and everything else just _happens_ to be missing! Where's all of the china?"

"What china?"

"Do _not_ play dumb with me, young lady." She squeezed my arm. I think she's out for blood—at least enough blood to replace the china with. "I want to know what happened to the china that's missing."

"There's china missing?" I asked curiously.

"I just said that!"

"Well, who could've done that?" I asked innocently. She groaned.

"Lucille, _do not_ lie to me. I know you were somehow involved in this."

"Why would you think that, ma'am?" I said sweetly. She rolled her eyes at me.

"Hmm, let's see…Because every time something happens, it always somehow comes back to involve you." She stopped short before grinning. She's pure evil, that was an evil grin right there. "If you tell me the truth, I won't have to discharge you." She's going to try to bargain with me now? She might as well just fire me. She's had it out for me ever since I began working for this company. "Lucille. Those pieces are still in the dining hall. That's evidence. Do you think I'm dumb, young lady?" I don't want to answer that. I didn't answer. "Well, do you?" She's going to make me answer.

"No, ma'am."

"Do you think I was born yesterday?"

"No, ma'am."

"Did you think I wouldn't be able to put two and two together?" Well…

"No, ma'am."

"I know you were working last night and then, you concealed the evidence!" I can't afford to have the broken dishware be taken out of my paycheck.

"Ms. Kexington, Lucy had nothing to do with it."

"What!?" Maureen practically shrieked that as she whirled around, dropping my arm in the process. I turned to see Alan standing there, a few saucers in his hand. He handed them to me before taking a few steps towards Satan.

"Lucy helped me clean it up last night," he said calmly.

"_You_ broke the china?" she asked, unconvinced. He nodded. He's taking the blame. I took his arm, about to tell him to stop, but he brushed my arm away.

"Yes, ma'am. It was an accident." She sighed, seeming to ignore the accident part.

"Where are the pieces?"

"I hid them." He paused, before breaking out into obnoxious laughter.

"I don't find anything of this funny!" she huffed.

"No, I just…" He kept on laughing, before taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I just hid them so well, I can't even _remember_ where I hid them!" He put a hand on his stomach as he began to roar with laughter, even louder than before.

"Well!" She put her hands on her hips. "You know the rules, Alan. Would you like me to tell you how much of your earnings are coming out of your paycheck because of this little _accident_?"

"No, ma'am," he said in a serious tone, having seriously calmed down from his little giggle fit.

"Forty-eight percent!" she said, slapping her hands together. "Alright, then." A pause. "Well, just don't stand there! Go do something productive! Go on, scoot!" Alan grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the café. She huffed off and after a few seconds of silence passed, we both began to laugh.

"Oh my God!" I laughed, holding back my tears, trying to keep my insides _inside_ of my body. I'm aching from the laughter! "You are absolutely crazy!" I wrapped my arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. "You are insane! But, you wonderful, wonderful man!" I kissed him on the cheek a few times, out of gratitude. "You insane man, you, you're fantastic! Thank you, thank you!" He stopped short.

"You _were_ involved?" he asked, completely clueless. I stared at him, jaw dropped before he broke into a smile. "Just kidding."

"Oh, you're wonderful!" I exclaimed, kissing him on the cheek before squeezing him again. "You're wonderful and crazy!"

"But, that's why you love me, right, for my insanity?" he asked, still laughing. I nodded.

"The insane must stick together, right?"

"Right!" he agreed.

"Now," I began, "I must know: How did you know I was involved?" He laughed.

"Because you're always _somehow_ involved." Quoting Maureen, before lunch. I could hurt him, but I can't. "What happened anyway?" I sighed, my arms dropping to my sides.

"It was stupid, really, a complete accident…" I allowed my voice to trail off.

"And…?" I looked up at him. "I'm not going to take _that_ as an answer."

"It was an accident!" I laughed. "I put too much china onto the tray I use…"

"Oh, the _tray_." He hates those trays. Not as much as the rolling carts, but he hates them just the same.

"Yes, the _tray_. I dropped it before it made it to the cart." I shrugged. "It was late, I was tired. End of story."

"You are a complete klutz," he decided, with a nod.

"At least I didn't drop it on anyone."

"True."

"Thank you, though, Alan," I repeated. He smiled.

"How many times are you going to thank me?"

"Until you say, No problem, Luce."

"Well, any way you look at it, you owe me, my dear." He pinched my cheek playfully, before brushing past me, towards the table I had placed the napkins on. I turned to face him and I see now that that nice officer is good and gone. I forgot all about him, truth be told.

"I know I do," I said, with a nod.

"No, you really, really, _really_ owe me."

"I know. And I'll say it again: thank you. But…" I tucked a piece of stray hair behind my ear. "I can pay you. I'll give you the money Maureen takes out of your check. Once I get my paycheck—"

"No, no." He shook his head at me. "You need the cash. Why else would I have done that?"

"Because you're an absolute sweetheart?" I asked sweetly, battering my eyelashes. He smiled.

"That's very true, but…I don't need the money as much as you." Jonathan, I know he means Jonathan.

"But…but…" I stopped when he shook his head at me. "Are you _sure_?" He nodded.

"Absolutely positive. Just remember that you owe me."

"Of course."

"So, anything I want…"

"Consider it done." He then grinned at me, over his shoulder.

"Sexual favors included?" I shot him a look.

"I'm not _that_ grateful."


	9. The Coconut Grove

"Alan! Alan!" I begged, trying not to laugh, but with little success, "wait, help me!" Now, I can't stop laughing…and the dogs are beginning to drag me down the deck, with more force than before. Alan managed to catch up with me, as the dogs he's holding continue to act like perfect angels. See, what did I tell you? The dogs are perfect with him and _only_ him. He grabbed me by my shoulders before taking the leashes.

"Here." He split up the leather leads between himself and I, as I brushed my hair from my eyes. "You're a lot smaller than me. I forget that." He managed a smile as I struggled not to wrap my hands around his neck and choke him. I forced a smile myself.

I don't know why he thought me taking more dogs than him out for their daily walk was a good idea, especially since I _am_ smaller than him, but I think he learned that he should just take the dogs, not me. And yet, after picking up the breakfast ware, it's nice being outside. Just as long as I don't look over the railing, which Alan feels the need to point out every ten seconds, him not realizing my irrational fear of water—everything should and will be okay. He began to laugh, for no apparent reason.

"What's so funny?" I questioned.

"You."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because of that dumb expression across your face." I laughed a little myself. "A little frazzled or what?"

"A little," I managed to admit, holding onto the leashes tighter than before.

"You must assert control with these _beasts_," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Oh, really?" I glanced down at all of the pampered pooches that were under our watch for the time being. What would take place if something, God forbid, happened to one of these animals, such as an accident? Are we accountable or is Maureen? Probably us, and then Maureen. I laughed, just at the sight of how happy all of the animals are, panting and wagging their tails. They really adore Alan and I just can't figure out _why_. "They're dogs, Alan! They're _pets_!"

"Pets that have yet to see my wrath."

"The Mallard wrath?" I raised an eyebrow at him. "Should I back up and let you work your magic?" I began to laugh hysterically, at the sight of his face. He's one determined steward. "You're a steward, my friend," I said, patting his shoulder. "You must learn to live with that."

"But, damn it, it's _so_ hard," he whined sarcastically.

"Damn it, those paychecks are nice, though, aren't they?" He smiled.

"_If_ I had a paycheck…"

"Oh, please, don't start!" We continued down the deck, the dogs all seemingly happy enough—at least happy enough for my tastes. Alan, though, here he goes. He's felt the need to guilt-trip me about not having any money, even after he gets his paycheck, because of his sticking up for me. This has gone on for hours—since this morning, to this afternoon and it's getting really old. "I know I owe you. I'll pay you back!"

"I don't want your money."

"Then stop complaining," I snapped.

"I'm not complaining."

"What would you like to call it, then?" I asked.

"Reminding."

"_Reminding_?" He nodded.

"Yes, reminding."

"You're reminding me that you're going to be dirt-poor?" I asked skeptically.

"Exactly."

"No, you're _complaining_!" I sighed angrily. "God, Alan, if I knew this was what was going to transpire from this morning, I would've admitted to it."

"Oh, really?" I shot him a look. "Okay, _really_."

"Yes, really. She still knows I was involved. She keeps glaring at me."

"More than usual?"

"Absolutely, definitely…more than usual." I paused, putting a hand on my hip. "Did you _not_ see her staring at me, muttering to herself, shining that teapot?" He shook his head. "She was cleaning with such force, I thought she was going to polish the silver away!"

"I didn't notice."

"How could you not notice!?" I exclaimed.

"I just didn't!"

"Well, that's _not_ her normal persona."

"Just stay out of trouble, that's your best bet."

"Trouble finds me, Alan."

"Sure it does. Sure." He rolled his eyes. "Women," he mumbled.

"Now, you're going to pull that card! God!"

"Is it completely impossible to get some service around here?" A polished oak cane had stopped us in our tracks down the deck, the hook of the cane holding onto the leashes horizontally. I guess we're not going anywhere. I followed the cane that was blocking our way to a wrinkled hand, and then the hand, then up the arm, covered by a very expensive-looking black wool coat and then to the face. It's an old man, with a large smile on his face. First-class obviously, but an older gentleman, just the same. And he's out here, in the sunlight, enjoying himself, teetering on one of the ship's many deck chairs, the blanket on the edge seemingly untouched. Thank you, God. It took Alan and I _forever_ to fold those. "About time I found someone who actually works here!" He laughed.

"What would you like, sir?" Alan asked, before I even had the chance to open my mouth to tell this man to get his cane out of my way before I throw it overboard.

"Tea." Tea. I hid my groan and glanced at Alan, who looked just as aggravated as me. fI swear, if I hear another damn tea request after this, I will take the tea bags and throw them into the sea! I hate tea now—I didn't mind it before, now I despise it with a passion. If I ever find out who made tea to begin with…their future generations will have Hell to pay, let me tell you.

"Yes, sir." Alan glanced at me. "Do you want me to get it or do you want to?" he mumbled under his breath.

"I'll go," I offered, handing him the dog leashes.

"I'd like it cold." I stopped, glancing down at the passenger. Is he serious? The whole point of tea is to have it hot! I have no idea on even how to make tea cold. One of Alan's talents is making tea cold—He just can't make tea correctly, and that's why I offered to make it in the first place. But, Hell, if the man likes it cold, God bless him. A man after my own heart. For as strange as this may sound, I adore cold tea. I can't make it cold, but Alan can. I'm not sure what he does—maybe he warms it and then puts the cups into the icebox for a few minutes, but I think it's great cold. Alan has mastered the technique, it's practically an art form now.

"I'll go," Alan told me, handing me back the dog leashes I had seconds before and his. He brushed past me and I stood there, in shock, for a moment or two before regaining my composure.

"You know, that's so strange…"

"What is?" Oh, did I just say that out loud? I blushed. I need to learn how to keep my mouth shut. I took a few steps forward, my arm practically pulled out of its' socket from all of the animals.

"Well, if you're all set…" I said, changing the subject completely. This is weird, awkward silence and these dogs are getting jumpy, since I'm not moving fast enough for them. He managed a smile at me, standing up from his chair, leaning against that cane of his.

"What's strange?" he continued to prod.

"I drink tea the exact same way," I blurted.

"Oh, really?" He smiled. "How many people do you meet with that odd quirk?"

"Not many, apparently," I said politely. "Sir." I added that in as an afterthought and he must've known, because he laughed.

"I already feel old enough, young lady, without the _sir_!" He switched his cane from his right hand to his left. "And it may be rude and improper to ask," he began, "but what's a pretty girl like you doing here, _working_, of all things?" He tipped his hat to me. "Oliver Bern."

"Lucy," I managed to choke out.

"You see, Lucy." He stopped short. "Is it okay if I call you Lucy?" I nodded. Why not? My job is already on the line. "Women your age should be enjoying themselves." I had to laugh at that. It sounds insane, but he speaks the truth!

"Ah, that's only for the young and the _very_ rich!" I laughed.

"Either way, you on a such a large ship, serving all of us? It doesn't seem right." Well, women need money, too, so I suppose women have to work. Oh, to live in the lap of luxury! "And it's not as if the first-class people need the confidence boost of bossing someone else around."

He rolled his eyes. I forced a smile. He glanced at me, and then cocked his head, keeping his eyes on me. As if I enjoy having complete strangers somewhat gawk at me, I'm completely uncomfortable. Plus, there's this silence. I'm not all that great with silence. I want to just walk away. I don't want to socialize, damn it! I don't get paid to socialize.

"You know," he said, with a chuckle, "you look so familiar to me. Have we met somewhere before?" Now, I can't leave. I get to be interrogated by this senile old man. I shook my head.

"No, I don't think so, sir." He smiled.

"Oliver," he corrected.

"No, I don't think so, _Oliver_," I repeated. "I think I'd remember if we had met." I know I'd remember him. His suit alone must've cost at least five figures. More money than I'll ever see in my entire life. You don't see old men walking around with outfits on like that every day of the week. It leaves an impression.

"Either way, you look so familiar—I just, I just can't place you." He sighed, shrugging a shoulder. "Maybe it's the old age. Everyone I see, I swear I've met before."

"Oh, I'm sure it's not that," I lied. That probably _is_ the case.

"Don't feel the need to lie because you work here," he told me simply. My jaw must've dropped, because he chuckled. "What I mean is: don't feel the need to be polite," he somewhat corrected. "And where's that other nice steward, anyway? How long does it take these days to make tea?" I shrugged. With Alan, who knows if he'll even come back.

"Oh, there he is!" I said, seemingly relieved. Alan seems to be running down the deck in a seeming panic, a tray in his hands. Don't drop the tray, don't drop the tray! When he finally caught up with us, I forced a smile. "Does it take that long to make tea?" I questioned between clenched teeth as he placed the tray down on the chair Oliver had been sitting on.

"It is when you want it cold," was his mumbled reply. "Is that all, sir?" he asked Oliver. He glanced down at the tea and then to Alan.

"You didn't get any for the young lady!" Alan shot me a look.

"You wanted some?" he questioned, sounding just a tad aggravated.

"Us cold tea enthusiasts must stick together!" Oliver exclaimed.

"I'm fine," I reassured both of them, splitting up the dogs leads and hanging half back to Alan. "Well, if you're all set, sir…We really must get back to work. Right, Alan?"

"Oh, right, right." He seems like he's off in his own little world, as usual.

"Well." Oliver, should I really call him that, took my hand, gently squeezing it. "It was a pleasure, Lucy." I forced a nod as Alan shot me a look of _how did he know your name_? He dropped my hand and nodded to Alan. "And thank you for the tea…" His voice trailed off as Alan cleared his throat.

"Alan, sir."

"Thank you for the tea, _Alan_. You two have a good morning, now."

"You, too, sir," Alan told him, taking me by the arm. "Come on, Luce." Oliver kept his eyes locked on me as we began down the deck. Please, stop staring. I sighed as Alan dropped my arm. It's been one _long_ morning. "Was that weird or what?" he asked, with a tiny laugh.

"What?"

"Just to think: two people, on the same liner, who both like cold tea! What are the odds?" I smiled.

"I know, I know. And luckily for him, you make the best tea this side of the sea." He smiled at the compliment.

"Either way…You two must've dropped from the same coconut tree!" I smiled at him, before quickly glancing over my shoulder. And there that Oliver character is, drinking his cold tea, in perfect paradise. He must be crazy. He has to be. Why else would he like cold tea? Why else would he be nice to me, of all people? There has to be something wrong with him. That's the only reason I can fathom.

"It's more like a coconut _grove_," I mumbled.


	10. Hating the Royalty

"Are you sure you can't get it any tighter?" I stifled a groan as I shook my head at the most agitating woman to ever step foot on this ship. No, it's not Maureen, but some first-class woman. I didn't bother to ask her name, merely because I really could care less. I glanced over at her million-dollar closet before eyeing her up and down in that whalebone corset. Granted, she's beautiful—but it doesn't give her the right to verbally walk all over me. She has beautiful, long brown hair, I mean, absolutely _beautiful_, and an enormous diamond engagement ring on her finger. The ring, I'm not surprised at that. She's not the neatest woman on Earth, however—her clothes always seem to be scattered across the room, clothes I get the pleasure of picking up, but she's pretty enough, I suspect. She took in a deep breath, turning to me. "Any tighter?" she asked again. Not unless you want your ribs to snap.

"I'm afraid not, Miss," I said.

"Well, try." She turned back to the bedpost and held onto it tighter than before. I sighed. She's not going to give up and it's all because women feel the need to be as thin as possible. Did any of them ever try dieting? Corsets just seem to be too painful for my tastes. "I need to look fantastic for Edward tonight." I assume Edward's her fiancée. I'm not really sure—and yet, I still don't care. If Edward loved you so much, he'd get you a maid to boss around. I'm already abused enough, thank you very much.

"Miss…"

"Just try," she said between clenched teeth. I sighed again, before unlacing the top of the corset, beginning to tighten it from the bottom up.

"Deep breath," I instructed before pulling the laces as tight as I could. Now, I'm _not_ happy and plan on taking my frustration out on the corset. She peeped, probably from her ribs cracking into her lungs as I tied it. "How's that?" I asked, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I mean to be, placing my hands on my hips.

"Perfect," she said, so breathless, it almost sounds like she's speaking to me in a whisper. "Now, the dress." She brushed past me and towards her closet, a hand on her stomach, still trying to breathe. I hid my laughter. The way women torture themselves! Granted, after only a few tries, lacing a corset is just as funny as it is difficult…for me, anyway. As much as I may complain about it, I do get to admire the beauty of the first-class rooms when I lace corsets. Oh, to have money…Wouldn't I just _love_ to have no other worries on this Earth, and only worry about what to wear for dinner? No, not really—but I wouldn't mind the money. "What do you think?" she asked me, gesturing to a green dress hanging in the closet. I shook my head. That's hideous. "No?"

"I don't think so, Miss," I said quietly.

"Doesn't match?"

"How about the black one?" I suggested, ignoring her question as I stepped towards the closet. I held out a fully-beaded black dress maybe one or so down from the atrocious thing known as the green dress from Hell. "It's really beautiful."

"You think so?" I nodded.

"It'll play up your fair skin," I lied. Maybe she'll tip me. Never has, but it's worth a try, anyway. She smiled, almost proud of her beauty. This is _revolting_.

"Alright, that one it is." I took it off the hanger and undid the hooks in the back, trying not to pull any beads off the dress by accident. It really is pretty, I mean, it's funeral-chic. I would never wear this, _ever_. You couldn't pay me enough to wear this dress. Even though it has a train, that she'll just step on, anyway—it's pretty, but maybe not in black. I don't know, I'm not a fashion consultant. "Take a step in," I instructed, holding out the dress for her. She put one foot in and then the other and I pulled the dress up onto her shoulders, fixing it before I pulled the back together. She stared at herself in the mirror, this large smile across her face as I began to redo the hooks again.

"Do you think it's too much?" she suddenly asked, scared. I shook my head. It's not too much! I'm not putting another dress on her right now, damn it. "No?"

"No."

"I mean, after all, I am dining with the Captain, besides Edward, of course, and then there's Bruce Ismay, and Thomas Andrews…" I fought the urge to roll my eyes, and blinked instead.

"Important people," I said, with a nod. What else am I to say?

"Exactly. That's why I'm wondering if it's too much."

"Well, they're important," I repeated. "So…It's not too much, Miss." I hooked the last little hook on the nape of her back and I'm actually a little relieved that Hell is over. "Take a step forward for me?" I asked. She complied and I fixed her train, straightening it out over the carpeted floor.

"What about jewelry?" she asked, moving away from me before I could completely fix the train. Oh, well. It's not my problem. "Silver or gold?"

"Silver." She glanced at me over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

"Really?" I nodded.

"It'll give some color to the dress," I lied, yet again. I paused. "And are you going with white or black gloves, Miss?" I questioned, changing the subject before going for the bureau.

"White, of course!" She laughed. "Black's only for funerals." Well, she could've fooled me. I opened up the top drawer of the bureau and after a minute or so of rummaging through it, I found the gloves. "The long ones," she reminded me, as if I were a child. I _hate_ my job. I walked towards her and helped her on with the gloves as she struggled with a silver necklace.

"Here, let me, Miss."

"Those silly lobster claws! How do they expect you to wear the necklaces?" I shrugged a shoulder as I managed to hook the necklace together. She straightened it out and I glanced at her momentarily in the mirror. She looks okay. I mean, besides the whole funeral dress, she looks okay for dinner. I'm not helping with another dress, so it'll have to do. "How's my hair?" The hair that took me forever to do? She touched one side of her head and a bobby pin, of course, had to come out and fall to the floor. "Oh, I'm sorry." You don't sound sorry.

"I'll fix it," I told her, "take a seat for me, would you?" She nodded, sitting down at her vanity as I searched for the missing pin. Found it. I pulled the hair back that the pin was holding in place and struggled not to stab her with it as I placed it back in. "How's that? Secure enough, Miss?"

"It's perfect." She stood, brushing past me as she grabbed her purse off the bed.

"Will that be all?" I asked.

"I think so. I'll ring after dinner."

"Of course." I curtseyed, no matter the embarrassment and opened the bedroom door to the sitting room, where a man in a tuxedo was sitting on the sofa. Well, he certainly wasn't here when I first came in. He inevitable ignored me as I went for the door to the hallway. Someone just throw me overboard. Please.

"What do you think, Edward?" I didn't glance over my shoulder. It's funeral girl.

"Oh, my dear, you look ravishing!" I have to see this. I glanced over my shoulder to see the man, who must be Edward, stand and take her up in his arms. Oh, that's Edward all right. "You look good enough to eat." I held back my laughter. Is he kidding? I can't believe he just said that! "And you picked this out all by yourself?"

"Oh, yes, of course!" she giggled. I rolled my eyes. Of course, I don't get any credit for my taste in clothes.

"You'll knock those officers right off of their chairs!" he exclaimed. Alright, that's enough. I sighed and opening the door, took a step out and slammed it behind me. Oops. Besides…Dinner. I hate dinner, just as much as I despise my job—where I get to be surrounded by water all day, every day. I had laced so many women tonight, I think I have lace burns from trying to tie the corsets so tight. I did the best I could. I do try. I brushed hair from my eyes as I made my way down the hall, towards the first-class dining hall. I need to look like I'm doing something productive, as if I'm actually busy. God forbid Maureen should find me. If I find Alan, we can at least look like we're being productive together.

Of course, he's nowhere to be found. I'm not sure what he's been up to all day, but here I am, working like a slave…wondering where he is. He's probably eating, the pig. Come on, Alan! Where is he? I sighed impatiently. And maybe, if I play my cards right, I'll even get a chance to eat something during this dinner! It takes the royalty a little while to get back up to their rooms and ring for me, so maybe I'll get the chance to eat…if I'm lucky. Am I the only woman steward on this damn ship!? I feel like I am, especially after meals—every other female steward is nowhere to be found.

I went through the doors towards the dining hall and stopped at the staircase, peering down. No sign of Alan. Damn it. Where could he have gone? I turned, my back to the stairs as I watched men and women alike slowly but surely make their way down the stairs. How long does going down a staircase take, anyway? I looked to my left at the door and sure enough, here comes Edward and that girl. I groaned. What did they do, run to get here!? They were just gloating over each other a second ago, and now, here they are…like flies. And of course, she'll want me to do something—like she always does when she sees me and I really don't want to have to push her down the stairs. Blood stains on the oak would _not_ be a pretty sight. I quickly scurried down the stairs, almost knocking two women down in the process.

"Well!" one huffed.

"Can you believe how rude!?" the other one exclaimed.

"Manners, oh!" I hid a laugh as I made my way towards the entryway to the dining hall, just before an oncoming disaster should occur. I looked up at the stairs and here those two come—Edward and the girl he gets to call his _wife_. I watched, almost in slow motion, expecting her to fall down the stairs, but they made it down successfully. As they brushed past me, I watched as her dress train began to bundle together in the back.

"Wait." I stopped myself. I'm not running in there after her. "Don't trip," I said between clenched teeth. "Don't—" Too late. She tripped, but that _darling_ fiancée of her's managed to catch her before she fell flat on her face. "Trip." I held back my laughter. I'll get blamed for that now, just watch and see.

"Hello, Lucy." I stopped cold, before forcing myself to turn. Mr. Andrews, completely dolled up and my God…no Lucy, he's married. Remember that! I forced a smile. How many people will I see going into the first-class dining hall before I get the hint and _leave_?

"Hello, sir," I said, with a tiny nod.

"Any luck with that notebook yet?" he asked as the people he must've come down the stairs with brushed past us, which included the Captain and a few officers I don't recognize. "Lucy?" I looked from his little party back to him.

"No luck yet," I said, pulling myself out of my head.

"It has to show up eventually, right?"

"It will," I reassured him.

"Why don't you join us?" he suddenly suggested. I laughed politely at that. He can't be serious.

"Thank you, but no thank you, sir," I said, with a small smile. I gestured to my clothes. "I'm not dressed for it." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter.

"So?"

"Maybe another time. I'm meeting Alan, anyway," I lied. Never in a million years could you get me into that dining hall, without paying me a pricey fee.

"Oh, are you now?" he asked, somewhat unconvinced. I smiled. He doesn't even believe me and in a way, why should he? I am lying, after all.

"If I can find him!"

"Well, maybe another time. When we find you the proper attire, would be best, I think." He smiled at his own humor, merely because he didn't sound all that serious. "Maybe before the maiden voyage is over…?"

"Of course."

"Well, take care, Lucy." He brushed past me, a smile still on his face and I just had to sigh. He's way too happy. Then again, why shouldn't he be? This is his ship and we're all on it.

As more and more people went into the dining hall (I suppose calling it the dining _saloon _is more proper), I had to zigzag my way past them to get back up the Grand Staircase. I think that's what it's called, anyway. And looking up, I whistled at the big glass dome above me. I whistled. I never saw that before…I suppose I never noticed it, even though I've been down the stairs hundreds of times in the last few days.

Anyway…now to find Alan, which is the main reason I came down here in the first place. Down the hallway I went, towards the outside, trying to figure out where that café is. I need a map. But, maybe he's in there—He always seems to be in there. I pushed open a door and down the deck I went, in somewhat of a daze and after looking through a few windows, trying to figure out where I am—I finally found the café and took a left inside. Empty. Well, where else could he have gone?

I bit my lower lip, trying to think as I continued to wander across the ship, not really looking for him, and still sort of looking for him…If I find him, great, if I don't, I'm not going to panic. I can hear water hitting the ship from the deck and daringly, I looked over momentarily. Complete and utter darkness. I'm not sure what else I expected! But, it's just dark…but, we all know there's water down there. I shuddered at the thought.

Minutes or maybe an hour of wandering later, I find myself on B deck…at least that's what some sign said high over my head when I passed. I took a random left and found myself surrounded by chairs and tables—and I'm still somewhat outside. It looks almost like a porch. Yes, a screened-in porch. I groaned. This must be that other café, the Café Parisian that Maureen raved about before we boarded, the café for the younger set of royalty. It must be luxurious, why else would Maureen rave about it?

And besides, how many café's are actually needed on one ship? More than one, obviously. And even though it's getting pretty chilly out here, I took a seat at a random table in the middle of the room and sighing, threw off that dumb bonnet. I crossed my arms over my chest, looking around at everything. Just empty, woven chairs, no people—everyone must be eating in their proper places, but…I leaned back into my chair. This is actually pretty comfortable. Then again, I'm so tired, I could sleep on nails and not notice…


	11. Cashing in the Chips

"Hey, stranger!" I must've been half-asleep, because I jumped at the sudden sound. The voice whistled and I glanced over to my right. Alan. Sitting there, maybe a few feet off from me, there he is, eating no less. Did I _not_ say he'd be eating?

"This is first-class only," I informed him as he took up whatever he was eating, along with his cup in his arms, making his way over to me.

"Then, why are you here?" he questioned, taking a seat across from me. "Hungry?" He gestured to his sandwich, cut in half, and not even half-devoured yet. "I could get Paul to fix you something—" I shook my head to stop him.

"No, I'm not hungry." Well, I _was_ hungry, I'm not anymore.

"You sure?" He showed his sandwich to me, holding it up to my eyes. "It's turkey." I laughed, pushing his arm away.

"I'm positive." I sighed, cupping my head in my hand as Alan took another bite of his sandwich.

"Oh, so good…" He mumbled, his mouth half-full, winking at me. I smiled. "And so good for you…"

"Stop it."

"But, it's turkey, and cheese and lettuce and…"

"Stop it or I'll hurt you," I warned.

"And that kitchen crew knows how to actually _warm_ the turkey up…"

"Alan!" He smiled.

"But, it's _so_ good, Luce, I swear to you, I have never had a better sandwich in my entire life—"

"Alright, stop with the enticing!" I took the linen napkin beside his plate and quickly snatched the uneaten half of his sandwich, placing it onto the cloth.

"Hey, that was _my_ sandwich!"

"That's what you get for telling me how _fantastic_ it was," I scolded, taking a quick bite before he could snatch it back from me. I know that's what he wanted to begin with, and he got it—he's getting me to eat. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Exactly what I wanted," he replied. "How is it, anyway?" I shrugged.

"It's okay." It's _fantastic_!

"You need food."

"Sometimes, that's true." I eyed him. "You're not my mother."

"Well, someone has to be. You can't live on coffee forever."

"I don't even drink coffee!"

"Whatever you drink, that's what I mean. You can't live on that forever. Tying women into corsets takes strength, which requires food, at some point…"

"Either way," I interrupted, "I am not blood-related to you." He raised an eyebrow of confusion.

"So?"

"So? So?" I rolled my eyes at him. "You're not blood-related, so I don't have to listen to you."

"Well, I'm not going to shovel your dead carcass off of Titanic's new floors when you drop dead."

"_If_," I corrected.

"_When_." I know he's right. But, really, how can I be expected to eat when I'm working all the time? It's not like I can just eat something while I'm walking around. I'll get seasick.

"You know," I said, changing the subject, "I was looking for you earlier."

"How early?" he questioned.

"Around dinner," I answered.

"I was annoying someone to make me a sandwich."

"You could've just made it."

"Do I look like _crew_ to you?" he asked me in a serious tone. He quickly took his steward hat off of his head and threw it onto the table. "How about now? Do I look like crew?" I laughed as he attempted to straighten out his hair.

"Either way," I said, taking a bite of the sandwich, "I couldn't find you."

"So, what? You gave up?" I nodded.

"Yes, actually, I did."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" I sighed as he stopped talking, placing my hand back into my palm before rubbing my eyes tiredly. "What's wrong with you?" he questioned, taking another bite of his sandwich. "Need coffee?" he mumbled, mouth half-full. "I sure as Hell need some more, half a cup can only get me so far…"

"No."

"Is something the matter?" he continued to probe.

"Alan, I'm tired, okay?" I told him, irritated.

"Okay, grouch." He stopped. "Am I going to have to call you that from now on? The grouch? The grouch monster? The grouch actually disguised as the Devil?" I forced a smile, when all I want to do is cry. I'm so tired, I think I'm beyond being overtired. "Are you sure you're okay?" I nodded. "Because you look like you're about to bawl."

"I'm tired," I repeated, picking up my sandwich half again.

"I think we've established that, don't you? And besides—Here." He slid his cup towards me. "Coffee. Caffeine. Have some."

"Then, I won't be able to sleep."

"So, what?" He grinned at me. "Coffee, caffeine, all of the great addicting things in life. Have some." I sighed as he placed the cup into my hands. I took a few large gulps of the coffee before handing it back to him.

"How much sugar did you put in that?" I questioned, my throat dry.

"Too much to be healthy." He paused, taking a sip himself. "Do you know what you need?" he suddenly asked.

"Sleep?" I suggested.

"Besides that…want to know what you need?" I shrugged.

"Sure, why not?"

"You need cheap beer and nicotine." I laughed out loud as he threw his hat back onto his head.

"Cheap beer and nicotine?" I questioned skeptically. He nodded enthusiastically.

"Yeah, cheap bear and nicotine! Come on." He stood, taking my hand and pulling me up, making me almost drop my sandwich.

"Alan, wait one second!" I said, angered. "First you tell me I have to eat, you got me to eat this sandwich, and now you're telling me to go with you. Go with you where?"

"Just come with me!"

"Go with you _where_?"

"Oh, that I'm not saying." He pulled me away from the table and chairs.

"Alan, wait, I—" I quickly grabbed the bonnet I had tossed onto the table, throwing it back onto my head.

"You owe me." I stopped short. He's right. I _do_ owe him. "Did you or did you not tell me that?" he questioned. I didn't answer, so he smiled—taking that as a _yes_ and we quickly left the room through a door maybe a few feet off, destination unknown.

"I want to at least know where we're going," I told him as he dragged me behind him, through Titanic's interior.

"You'll find out once we get there."

"I know I owe you, but I think I at least deserve the common courtesy of knowing where we're going!"

"Oh, we're going to have a ball!"

"Fun? Seriously?" He smiled at me over his shoulder, nodding. "You mean, there's such a thing here?"

"Of course, it's all in theory."

"_In theory_?" I questioned skeptically as he pulled me down a flight of stairs. "Is this some romantic getaway, because I don't feel all that swept away. I should've been lifted off of my feet, my stockings should've been knocked off—"

"I need a date," he informed me as we scurried down a second-class corridor.

"For _what_? You've been single long enough, it's been working for you. Does some old woman want you or something?" He pulled me down yet another set of stairs, into another hallway of gleaming white. I'm already lost!

"I need someone to dance with."

"_Dance_? Dance for what?"

"This." He pulled me down a few steps of yet another staircase and stopped cold. At the base of the stairs, I can hear music playing—Irish music, maybe, and people are dancing everywhere. It's a drunken night feast. Oh my God. He can't be serious! "It's a party."

"Thank you for clearing that up," I told him angrily, brushing past him and up the few steps he forced me down. "Thank you, but no thank you. Did you _not_ hear me when I told you I was tired?"

"Lucy." He turned to me. "Do you or do you not owe me?"

"You're turning in your chips for this?" I asked skeptically, a hand on my hip. He smiled.

"Well, yeah. When else would I use it? You told me sexual favors weren't included." He paused, smiling before quickly snatching the hat from my head and throwing it to the floor.

"Hey! What's wrong with you!?"

"And take off that stupid apron," he instructed.

"Why?"

"We're going to dance, you don't need it!"

"Correction: _you're_ going to dance. Without me."

"None of the women here even speak English!"

"You should've paid more attention in grade school! You would've learned a language, then!" I sighed, brushing hair from my eyes. "I'm going back." As I turned, Alan took my wrist, whirling me around to face him.

"Lucy, please." I stared at him and I realize, right now, that he's actually _begging_. I sighed tiredly. "Wouldn't Jonathan want you to have a good time?" My eyes must've softened, because he smiled widely. Oh, no. He is not using _that_ on me.

"Don't bring my brother into this," I hissed between clenched teeth. "Why is this so important to you, anyway?" A whistle. Someone from below whistled to either Alan, myself or both of us.

"Hey, Alan!" A voice now from below made us both look down the stairs and standing at the base is a very flustered Harold Lowe—that officer, Alan's supposed buddy, with his hat gone missing. "You coming down here or what?"

"Hold on one minute!" he called back. I forced somewhat of a laugh, wiggling myself out of my co-worker's grip.

"Oh, so that's what this is all about," I mused aloud. "I should've known!" And that's why he pulled the Jonathan card—he only brings up Jonathan when he wants me to do something. I should've known!

"Should've known what?"

"You want to impress your buddy by having a date." He blushed crimson.  
"No, I—" He cleared his throat. "You're not my date," he corrected, his voice changing octaves nervously, "you're my co-worker, my friend…"

"And a woman," I pointed out. He let out a deep breath.

"Yes, and a woman," he admitted, realizing his integrity is now on the line.

"That helps, doesn't it? It helps _you_, anyway."

"Yes, it does." I laughed.

"You have no shame," I decided and even though I could fall over from lack of sleep, I untied my apron and threw it on top of the bonnet, before kicking it towards the wall. I've got nothing to lose at this point—except for Maureen finding out. "I'll help you," I concurred.

"Really?" I nodded.

"Except for one rule."

"Name it."

"Maureen _cannot_ find out about this. Do you understand me? I have to go back after a little while to deal with the royalty and—"

"Okay, okay! I get it!" he exclaimed excitedly. He took my wrist, interrupting my little speech, pulling me down the stairs, towards a smiling Harold Lowe, completely in uniform. Do these officers wear nothing else besides the uniforms? I mean, granted, the steward and officer uniforms look a tad bit alike, and most men look great in them—But, I can get a little tired of it, I have to admit.

I glanced quickly around the room and even though it's crowded, everyone seems to be laughing and smiling, completely ecstatic. It's a pretty small room, considering how many people are here, but this could be…_fun_.

"Harry, remember my friend, Lucy?" Alan shouted to Harry, above the loud Irish music. At least I think it's Irish music, well, either way, that's playing in the background. I glanced at Harry, who smiled, nodding. It really looks like he remembers me.

"The spunky steward, how could I forget?" he told Alan, taking my hand and shaking it. "Nice to see you again, Lucy."

"You, too." As whatever song came to an end, Harry gestured to me as we dropped hands.

"Want to dance?" he asked, almost shyly.

"Well…I can't really dance!" I laughed.

"Neither can I!" he shouted as another song began to play.

"Are there steps?"

"I don't think so."

"Lucy, just go!" Alan told me, pushing me towards Harry. I had to stop myself and realized Harry has no idea of what to do, either. This is insane! I cannot believe I'm doing this! I mean, I know I owe Alan, but—

"And if there steps," Harry said, "no one's going to correct us, right?"

"I suppose. Nobody can speak English here, anyway…or so I hear." I eyed Alan suspiciously over my shoulder.

"Actually, that's true. Okay, well…" He took in a breath, before pulling me in closer to him, placing a hand on my waist. "This okay?" he questioned, still shy.

"Fine." I took his free hand and forced a smile. Alan owes me now. He really does, he's making me dance with his buddy! Harry smiled back, letting out a large breath.

"Well, this is certainly a way to crash a party, is it not?" he joked. And with that, we began to dance…and I realize now we really don't have any rhythm! "I told you I can't dance!" he told me above the noise.

"And I told you I can't, either!" And as we passed through the specs of people, all of my thoughts of tiredness and frustration with royalty slipped away from my mind—maybe this won't be too bad, after all. It could be fun, right? I looked up at Harry and he began to laugh hysterically, probably because of the expression on my face, and because of that—because of his silly little laughs, I began to laugh too.


	12. Have a Nice Night

"No one on this side of the Earth should drink as much as you have!" I laughed as we continued around the room, in yet another song. "And you didn't vomit!"

"Surprised?" Alan asked skeptically, bringing me yet again closer to him.

"I'm _impressed_, actually." I pulled back for a second. "Don't vomit on _me_, though," I warned.

"I won't," he reassured me.

"You know how hard it is to clean vomit out of the uniforms?" I questioned.

"Lucy, can you _not_ discuss work every waking hour of your life?"

"When would you like to talk about it?" He dropped his hand from my waist, gesturing around us.

"How about when we're _not_ at a party?" I smiled.

"Fine. But, it won't be long before Harry brings it up—"

"Harry, huh?" He grinned, placing his hand back onto my waist. "You two on a first-name basis now?"

"Oh, shut up!" I sped up the dancing as we twirled around the room faster than before. "He's _your_ friend, isn't he?"

"So, what?"

"So, I danced with him. I was trying to be nice!" He laughed.

"Sure you were, sure you were!"

"Don't make me hurt you," I warned. He merely laughed harder than before, speeding up again as we continued across the room.

"See? cheap beer and nicotine!"

"See what?"

"It works wonders! You're back to your normal self!"

"Sure, sure, it does!" Even through all of this dancing with both Alan and Harold Lowe, I'm not in the least bit tired. Yet again, I think I'm so tired, I'm not even _overtired_ any longer. I'm just awake now. Between that sugar-infested coffee and all of the cigarette smoke in this room, floating above my head, I sort of feel like I'm floating. "I should've stayed where I belonged!" I said, loud above the noise…err, _music_.

"Why? You would've missed all the fun!"

"_Fun_?"

"Hey, mind if I step in?" Harry, yet again.

"For God's sake, Harry, let me have one dance with the girl!" Alan told him as he held onto me tighter than before. How many times have I danced with that baby-faced officer? Too many times to count, actually.

"Everyone else has rhythm!" he argued. "I can't dance with them!"

"I don't know if I should be insulted or not," I said aloud, as Alan began twirling us around the room again, Harry trailing behind us. "I have rhythm!" I suddenly argued.

"No, you don't!" Alan disagreed loudly above the music. "And don't argue with me about that!"

"I didn't step on your feet, did I?"

"Well, _no_…"

"See?" I glanced at Harry momentarily. "I have rhythm. I am not the dancing partner for you."

"Please, Lucy?" I looked around the room, at everyone else still dancing before turning my attention back to Harry.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Don't change the subject!" Harry laughed as Alan looked for his watch, trying to keep dancing at the same time. Harry looked down at his watch, continuing to follow us through the crowd. "It's twelve-fifteen!" he called above the noise. Alan looked down at me, wide-eyed.

"Is it?" he asked softly, continuing around the room in a fast step. He whistled. "Maureen is _not_ going to be happy…"

"I know," I murmured, with a nod. "We've got to get back up to first-class…"

"One more dance," Harry begged, pushing past a couple to get to us. Alan sped up his dancing, zigzagging through a few people to get away from Harry.

"God, he gets annoying when he's had some liquor," Alan murmured. "To the stairs?" I nodded, just as Harry reappeared through the crowd.

"Harry, I'm going to lose my job! I can't dance any more!" I yelled. And I now realize Alan is not going for the stairs. I sighed angrily. "Alan for God's sake, _stop_ dancing!"

"One more dance won't make that much of a difference, will it?" Harry continued to beg. I sighed angrily. Alan's not even stopping _at all_!

"I thought we were going to the stairs!" I shouted to Alan, ignoring his friend for the moment. He shrugged. "Aren't you worried about Maureen?"

"Not anymore!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Who cares?"

"If you don't, I do!" Oh my God. Is he serious? I sighed, trying to stop my feet from moving, but Alan's not letting that happen. All of the dancing and partying I have done in the past few hours is coming back to me, back to haunt me…right now. My body's already sore. Tomorrow morning is not going to be fun—My body's going to be sore as Hell.

"One more dance, Lucy!" Harry repeated. "Not that much of a difference, right?"

"It could mean the difference of me having a paycheck and not having one," I informed him.

"Hey, then we could be poor together!" Alan shouted sarcastically. I ignored him.

"Don't you work?" I asked both of them, irritated, as Alan continued to jumble me around the room, now past a white pole that held up the ceiling above us.

"I'm not on duty tonight," Harry informed me, sighing a breath of relief before running to catch up with us. "Thank God. Captain would have my head for this—"

"And I work with _you_," Alan interrupted, glancing down at me. "And we're down here!"

"And I've already paid my debt to you," I pointed out. "Really, I—we have to go." And that's just when another song began to start. Before I could get myself out of Alan's grip, Harry had me and we were dancing yet again. "Harry!" He was laughing happily, like a little kid. Alcohol and him do not mix. I began to laugh myself. This is ridiculous! And now, I can't stop laughing!

"Harry, stop!" Alan shouted, holding back his own laughs. "She's right! We really have to go!"

"We have no rhythm," Harry told me, with a laugh, ignoring Alan, "we have to stick together!"

"No, we don't!" I argued, trying to hold back my giggles with no success. "I'm going to lose my job!"

"No, you won't!"

"Yes, I will!" More laughter on my part.

"Your employer will listen to me—I'm an officer!" Isn't that what that Will character said? That as an officer, you have a little bit of power…?

"Is that supposed to be _reassuring_?" I questioned.

"Well, yeah!" He began to laugh again, twirling me around the room.

"Harry, stop!" I ordered, beginning to laugh again.

"You don't sound all that convincing!"

"Well, you're acting like you've never danced before!"

"That's not true, I've danced before! It's just never been this much fun before!" He continued to laugh.

"There are some beautiful women here, go dance with them!"

"They're afraid of me!"

"Well, take off the hat!" He continued to go about the room, the music seeming to fill my ears, louder and with more force than before. I looked over his shoulder at the stairs and Alan's standing maybe two steps up, gesturing to me and then to his watch nervously. Oh, so _now_ he notices! He didn't seem to notice when we were dancing. He told me he didn't quote-on-quote care. _I know_, I mouthed to him, before gesturing to Harry. As we made our way towards the stairs, Alan grabbed my wrist quickly, pulling me up a step or two with him. More laughter on my part and I can't control myself.

"Don't tell me we're fighting over her!" Harry joked, leaning against the banister, completely breathless. "This is a flashback to Amelia. Granted, we never actually, physically _fought_ over her—"

"Amelia?" I interrupted, stopping my giggle fit immediately. A girl…? I glanced over at Alan. He blushed beet red, refusing to make eye contact with me, keeping his eyes to the floor. "Wait, wait, wait…do I even _want_ to know?"

"No, you don't," Alan reassured me, taking a tighter grip on my wrist.

"Oh, yes you do!" Harry disagreed, laughing. "She was beautiful, young, vibrant, and the most important thing, _rich_—"

"We don't have time to walk down memory lane!" Alan said between clenched teeth. He turned his attention to me. "Did you, Lucy, or did you not say we had to go?"

"Well, there's always time for a memory lane trip," I replied. I turned back to Harry. "How rich?" I questioned. He whistled.

"_Rich_."

"Give me a figure!"

"I can't—I can't count that high!"

"Come on," Alan told me, beginning to pull me up the stairs.

"Wait!" I shouted at him. "Who won? You?" He shook his head. "Alan?"

"Neither of us," Harry replied, shaking his head, almost as if depressed about it. "We lost to some old man."

"Was he rich, too?" He nodded.

"Of course," he said sarcastically. "Why else marry someone with a foot in the grave?"

"True, very true!" Alan pulled me up another step. "Alan, you're going to break my arm!" I said angrily.

"Do you want to lose your job?" he questioned.

"You already know my answer to that," I grinned. "You wanted to come down here to begin with!"

"Just, come on!" he said anxiously. I sighed.

"Fine. Bye, Harry!" I shouted, before finally giving in to my co-worker, allowing him to drag me up the stairs. "I want to know more about this Amelia!" I admitted rather loudly above the music to the one lone officer below us.

"Good luck with that!" he laughed.

"Stop giving your last good-byes like you'll never see him again," Alan sighed, pulling me up the final step and into the third-class corridor. He picked up my apron and bonnet from the floor and handed the bundle to me.

"Why are you so grouchy?" I suddenly asked. "You were fine a minute ago."

"Lucy, please don't." We began down the third-class corridor and with him to my right, I kept an eye on him, just to see this monotone expression across his face. Gone was the happy co-worker I know and love, and now for some reason, he's miserable. I'm not sure why.

"You have any hairpins?" I asked, straightening out my bonnet. Changing the subject—maybe that'll put him in a better mood. I felt my head for some pins, but all of them are gone. "I want to put this on, make it look like I was _actually_ doing something, but mine I think fell out during the whole—"

"What am I, made of hairpins?" he snapped.

"Sorry." I paused. "God, no need to snap at me! Something the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter." I smiled at that.

"You see, when people say that, something actually _is_ wrong—"

"Well, I'm not _people_, Lucy." He went up a flight of stairs and when he got to the top, looked down at me. "I'm just not people."

"But—" I scampered up the steps and ran down at least half of a second-class corridor to catch up with him, "Can you stop walking so fast?"

"I'm not walking fast," he argued.

"Oh, yes, you are." He sighed, reluctantly slowing down. "I'm smaller than you."

"I know, I know."

"Alan, really." I took a step in front of him, forcing him to stop. "What's wrong?"

"Lucy." He went around me until I found my way in front of him again.

"I'll badger you until I find out what I want," I told him confidently.

"Daughter of Maureen?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"You might say that!" I hesitated. "Really, Alan. What's the problem?" Well, what were we talking about? We talked about, well—liquor, nicotine (we smoked too many cigarettes tonight!), work, of course—work has been a big topic tonight and then…what else? That's it. Amelia. Amelia, the rich girl. I almost snapped my fingers at the realization, but didn't. "Is it about that girl?" He immediately tensed up. "Oh, it is, isn't it?" I smiled. "How could I have _not_ seen that—"

"Lucy, I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?" He pointed to his face.

"Does it look like I want to talk about it?" he asked between clenched teeth. I didn't flinch. I'm so used to him acting this way sometimes, it doesn't even effect me anymore.

"Alan…" I sighed. I give up. "Fine." We walked down the hall in silence. I must've struck a chord. I had never heard about this girl before, but the minute Harry brought it up, Alan actually _cringed_. He did, he cringed! It's almost as if he didn't even want to remember who this girl was. And I'm not sure why. Did she break his heart, did he break her's? Was there so much jealously that it almost caused the breakup of Harry and Alan's supposed friendship? Were guns drawn at a duel and whoever won, would win Amelia, only to find out that she was going to marry someone else? "I still want to know who she is," I told him. He sighed, completely and utterly irritated.

"Maybe there's a reason Maureen doesn't like us discussing about our personal lives amongst each other," he stated. I stared at him. I think he just quoted the handbook.

"Are you serious? We talk about personal things all the time."

"No. You talk, I listen. You don't know a thing about me." He stopped, shaking his head at me. "You don't know where I'm from, what I did in school, my family, my siblings, my life. You don't know any of that about me, Lucy. I know everything about you. Your mother, your deceased father, your sick brother—" He's making me sound crazy. About to take another corner, I held my arm out for the wall so he couldn't pass. I have to corner him to get a word in. Now, I'm just mad.

"Alan, I don't know because you've never shared!" I interrupted.

"You never asked!"

"What did you want me to say?" I questioned. "How's love treating you these days?"

"I'd expect for you to at least ask me about my life," he said, angry. "That's decency."

"When did this turn into something about you and I?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"God, Lucy, think of someone else besides yourself for half-a-second! All you do is talk about your troubles!"

"That's not true at all!" I argued.

"Yes, it is!"

"Fine, you want to talk? Talk, tell me your life's woes and problems!"

"I don't want to talk about it." He brushed past me and I had to force a laugh.

"See!" I pointed out. "It's not like I don't give you the opportunity to talk about yourself. In fact, quite the contrary! I'm all ears! Talk!"

"How can I when you're always discussing yourself? There are other people besides you, Lucy, with bigger troubles than you!"

"Some girl is trouble?" I questioned, placing my hands on my hips. "I honestly think that's trivial—" He whirled around to face me and I had to back up. I've never seen him like this, this…this _upset_.

"Whether or not it's trivial," he stated between clenched teeth, "it's a part of _me_." He's not going to intimidate me—He's a damn steward!

"A part you never wanted to share."

"God, Lucy!" He sighed loudly, aggravated. "You know, what? I don't need the third-degree from you or anyone else! As it is, Maureen's going to have my neck for tonight—" Now, he's going to blame me for this!? No!

"_You_ wanted to come and dance!"

"But, you were having fun, weren't you?" he questioned sarcastically. "I didn't force you!"

"That's not even close to being true! You used the fact that I owed you and made me go—"

"Well, you weren't kicking and screaming, now were you?" I have nothing to say to that. I wasn't kicking and screaming, he's right about that. I leaned against the corridor wall, waiting for him to start up again. "Women!" he huffed.

"Excuse me?" I'm insulted.

"Women never understand!" he huffed, throwing his arms up into the air. "Women!" I took a step towards him.

"You can't make a generalization like that because one of us was cruel to you!" I paused, taking in a deep breath. "And you know what?"

"What?" he egged on.

"It's not all about _you_, either!" I retorted. "I'm not going to let you verbally abuse me, your behavior is completely unacceptable! I'm not your rag doll or your verbal whipping post! I don't have to stand here and take it!" His eyes softened and for one mere moment, he didn't speak. It was as if what I had finally said clicked.

"There's no need to yell," he said lowly, sounding completely and utterly serious, not in the least sarcastic. Obviously, he's calm. Now, I'm mad as Hell! His anger just went to me!

"Just go," I told him, pushing him away from me.

"Luce…" Now, he's going to try to apologize.

"Just go!" I shouted, gesturing to the other corridor to our right. "I've had enough!"

"Lucy…"

"What are you, _deaf_?" I questioned loudly. "Go! You're just not happy until I get angry, are you!?" And I was in a pretty good mood, too. He sighed, defeated, before taking a right down another hallway. I rolled my eyes. He's never happy until I get mad and then he calms down.

I brushed hair from my eyes a moment or so after he disappeared, and sighed out of frustration. Alan, he is _such_ a jerk! And being so wrapped up in my own thoughts, I didn't notice that the jerk himself had come back. He probably never left to begin with. He quickly kissed me on the cheek, before I could push him away. You see, that's typical Alan, trying to be sweet—and I just am not going to give into the sweetness right now. In reality, I'm ready to strangle him. He always tries to make it up to me when he realizes how angry I actually am, even more so when he's the sole cause of my rage.

"I hope you had a nice night, Lucy," he whispered. I went to push him away, but didn't. Instead, I looked up at him, fighting the urge to slap him hard across the face.

"I did…until you ruined it."


	13. Don't Tell Alan

"Amelia was an old flame," Harry informed me the next morning outside of what he referred to as Titanic's _bridge_. I suppose all of the ship's equipment is in there…the little steering wheel…the important things. I suppose! And even though I should be working, curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know more about this girl, a girl that really sent Alan over the edge and Harry was the only person who seemed to really know what happened. He, however, was going about, doing what he usually does, which as he told me before we boarded—consisted of getting tea for fellow officers. He's pouring tea into multiple cups on a tray that he had stolen from the kitchen. I had followed him, trying to get the tray back, but as soon as he brought up the name Amelia, I had begged him to tell me who she was. And all he'll tell me was that she was an old flame! But, to be honest, I had planned on searching for him, possibly later on, to ask about her and by chance, he had found _me_ instead. "Tea?" he offered, holding up the teapot. I shook my head.

"That's it?" I questioned skeptically. "She was an old flame, and that's it?" He managed a laugh.

"She broke his heart." With that said, he didn't utter another word. I sighed, completely and utterly annoyed. Is that all he plans on saying?

"That's it?" I asked again. He sighed rather loudly.

"Lucy," he said, sounding as if he was about to scold me, "Alan and I are close friends."

"And…?" What's he getting at? As I stared at him, waiting for a response, he seems to be choosing his words rather carefully. That's never good.

"…And if he wanted you to know, he'd tell you. It's as simple as that."

"But, you and I both know he won't even say her name! I need information, Harry. Fast. And who do you go to when you need information?" I didn't wait for him to answer. "You go to the person's friend!"

"Why are you so curious, anyway?" he suddenly questioned. "Think you have competition?" I had to laugh out loud at that comment. He's kidding…isn't he?

"I want to know why I can't utter the name Amelia in his presence. And that's all."

"Sure," he commented sarcastically, eyeing me skeptically. "Sure you do."

"And I'm too curious for my own good," I admitted, rather lowly. "I want to know what happened."

"You do realize Alan would throw me overboard if he found out I told you, right?" I nodded.

"And the sacrifice you're making to the good of the cause really makes my heart ache." I groaned. "Come on, Harry—" I gestured to my wrist, as if I had a watch there. "I've got a job to do! I can't stand here all day and listen to you talk about how you _can't_ talk about her." I paused, taking a step towards him. "Please, please tell me."

"Lucy…"

"Do you want me to get yelled at by him again?" I asked, attempting to threaten him. If Harry won't tell me, I'll have to ask _Alan_ who Amelia is. I glanced up at Harry and he cringed. He hated the fact that we had an argument last night, at least that's what he keeps telling me—That's why I brought it up.

"What does that got to do with this?"

"Everything! If you don't tell me, I'll have to ask _him_." He almost dropped the teapot at that, probably out of shock.

"Oh, God, Lucy, don't do that," he instructed sternly. "Do _not_ do that. Do you understand me?"

"But, if you don't tell me, I'll _have _to ask," I said, battering my eyelashes sweetly.

"_Don't_ ask." He sighed, shaking his head at me. "You're not one to give up, are you?" he asked tiredly. I shook my head. I'm wearing him down, I see.

"No." I sighed at him, placing my hands on my hips. I'll have to somehow reason with him, I now realize. I'm not going to get the information I want unless I do something different—because my current strategy isn't working all that well. "Look, Alan won't find out about you telling me," I promised. "I won't bring her up, unless he starts pouring his heart out to me."

"Which he won't." Harry stopped, glancing at me curiously. "Right?" I nodded.

"Right." He sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Alright," he mumbled, rubbing his forehead. "Fine."

"Fine, _what_? Are you going to tell me?"

"What I know, yes." Yes! I must've completely brightened, because he chuckled a little to himself. Either way, thank you, Harold Lowe. "Just as long as you don't go asking him about Amelia," he quickly added in.

"Agreed." I paused. "But, first things first: where do _you_ fit into the love story?"

"Well…" He bit his lower lip in thought. "Well," he repeated, "how was I involved?" He asked this to himself as I nodded at him, trying to ease him along in the conversation. He was silent for what felt like seven minutes until he began to speak. Thank you! "When Alan began to work for the White Star Line, she, as in Amelia, would come and wait for him a few days every week. I guess they'd go to dinner, do something—I never asked and let me point out that I didn't care, either."

"Sure you didn't." He ignored my comment.

"…She'd strike up a conversation with me and Alan, of course, would think I was flirting with her…" I raised an eyebrow.

"And were you?" He nodded. "Now, why doesn't _that_ surprise me?"

"But it was only because she was flirting with me!" he argued.

"Sure she was, sure. And what happened with you and her?"

"Nothing." I stared at him, skepticism across my entire face. "Really, absolutely _nothing_ happened. She would bat her eyelashes, flirt with me, feel the need to fix my tie—"

"Which of course, was crooked at the most opportune moment," I said sarcastically. He smiled.

"Exactly. But, I didn't fall for it. I wasn't _in love_ with her. You see." He paused, as if trying to figure out how to explain what he wanted to say to me. "Alan was deeply in love with her and, personally." He lowered his voice. "I think he wanted to marry her." Oh, really?

"Because of the money?"

"You know, I thought that, but I think after a while, the money just wasn't the attraction for him anymore. He told me once, before I had ever had the _joy_ of meeting her…" He rolled his eyes at me. "That she was someone he could talk to. Really, honest to God, _talk_ to."

"Talk to about what?" He shrugged.

"Things, I suppose. Life. Me. Who really knows." He smiled at his own joke. It's too early to make jokes of this.

"So, then what?" I continued to pester.

"She met this older man and married him practically on the spot."

"And Alan…?"

"Never truly got over it."

"What did you think of her?" He hesitated.

"Honestly?" I nodded.

"Honestly."

"She played mind games. Any man that was in the room, she would flirt with him, make him feel like the best man on this side of the Earth. Alan never saw it. I saw it. The way she would talk to anyone of the opposite sex was damn intoxicating."

"_Intoxicating_?" I asked skeptically. He nodded eagerly, letting out a low whistle.

"Mm-hmm, intoxicating. It made you wonder where she learned to play men so well." He pointed to his head, rolling his eyes as if he were insane. Her mother…Amelia must've learned how to flirt so well from her mother, more than not. "And it was almost to the point of revolting, her flirting," Harry continued. "She wasn't shy about it. She wasn't the least bit shamed at how she was behaving around other men when she was with Alan."

"And the other guy…?"

"Just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"She sounds like _quite_ the handful." He nodded.

"Oh, she was." He let out a rather loud sigh. "But, to be honest, I…I could see what Alan saw in her." She must've been attractive. That's the only explanation for him understanding his friend's attraction to some girl.

"She was pretty?" I said it more as a statement than a question. He nodded.

"Oh, yeah," he murmured, whistling lowly. "_Very_ pretty." There was silence on his part. And although I got a little bit of information out of him, I want more. How can I not talk about Amelia if I don't know who she is, what she's about, and why the happy couple went their separate ways? Sure, I may have learned all of that in the past few minutes, but I want more. I'm never quite happy until I push the envelope.

"How long were they together?" I asked. He shrugged. "If you had to guess." I have to tell him everything.

"Maybe a year, maybe longer. I don't really know." He shrugged again. "I didn't keep count."

"Pretty serious, I'd say," I commented. "You'd think they'd marry after a year." He stared at me, angrily shaking his head, practically slamming the teapot in his hand onto my missing tray.

"She had no damn intention of getting married to him and I knew that from the first day I met her," he stated, sounding completely disgusted. "I tried to warn him, but does he listen?" I don't know if he was asking this of me, but I shook my head.

"Of course not!" I answered. Alan never listens. Ever.

"He told me I was jealous I had found someone so beautiful and that she was his, not mine."

"And were you?" I questioned. He smiled.

"Sure I was. What man wouldn't be? She was absolutely breathtaking. But…"

"But, _what_?" I cocked an eyebrow at him, urging him to continue. "There's always a but."

"She was beautiful, sure, but she didn't have a great personality. Or a personality to even speak of. I wouldn't want to be involved with her, no matter how wonderful she looked to the eye."

"Oh, really?"

"_Really_." It's very difficult to believe him, but at that one word, I do believe it. He didn't want Alan's girl after all. He sounded _that_ serious.

"He could've done better," I said simply. She sounds wonderful, but no personality? He would've been better off marrying a broom.

"He really could've," Harry agreed. "And that's what I tried to tell him. But, does he listen to me?"

"Of course not!" I repeated, for the second time in one morning.

"You can't tell him what to do, Lucy. Once he's got his mind made up, it's all over. A little like you." He smiled down at me.

"And the break-up, when did that happen?"

"Oh, a long time ago. He began working for the company…" He sighed, beginning to count on his fingers. "You know, to be honest, I can't remember. It was a while ago, though."

"And he _still_ can't talk about her?"

"Doesn't see the need." He paused. "And I know this is completely off-topic, but I need to know. He did apologize to you, didn't he, about last night?" How many times has Harry asked me this? I think he feels guilty about bringing up this Amelia character. I know I would. I nodded at him, forcing a laugh.

"Yes, he did," I said truthfully, nodding once again. Once I had gotten up this morning, Alan had found me and gave me this huge, long apology—telling me he was a complete jerk and that what he said about me wasn't true, that I wasn't selfish—and I just nodded, trying not to laugh. He really was sweet about it. I can't tell him that, but he was. He told me he was really just angry at Harry for bringing Amelia up in the first place. He said that he took it out on me (which is true!) and then regretted it later on. Of course, I forgave him. I can never get away from him, I suppose I have to forgive him. "How many times have you asked me that?" I asked Harry.

"I've got short-term memory loss," he joked. "Either way, I just wanted to make sure!"

"Well, he _did_."

"He should've given you money or something," he suddenly mumbled.

"For what?"

"For being rude, you didn't do anything. I was the one who brought it up to begin with. He was more mad at me than he was at you."

"Oh, he said that much."

"But he didn't bring up Amelia?" I shook my head. "I don't know about him, Lucy. He can be one strange character. Maybe he'll tell you about her, maybe he never will."

"Well," I stated, "I got all I needed from you, didn't I?" He grinned.

"True."

"LUCILLE SULLIVAN!" I cringed. Maureen. This early in the morning.

"Oh, God," I groaned. Harry managed a smile down at me.

"Your employer?" he suggested. I nodded.

"And I really don't want to deal with her," I admitted. "But, I suppose I need to get going—"

"LUCILLE SULLIVAN!" she shouted this again, merely loudly than before. I sighed. As if she's going to give up!

"Harry, thank you for all of your help," I said quickly, looking over my shoulder. Nothing. At least she hasn't found me yet. "I've got to go—" About to turn, Harry grabbed my hand.

"Wait. Lucy." I stood there, as he kept his mouth shut—trying very hard not to get impatient with me. "Tell me you won't say anything to him about me talking about Amelia." He held his hands together in prayer. "Please?"

"Didn't I already promise?" He was of enough assistance to me.

"Yes, you did, but—we have to keep our mouths shut to Alan, we don't tell him anything. And I mean _anything_."

"Don't tell Alan," I agreed.

"Our secret?" I already promised this, sailor.

"Our secret." I brushed past him and down the deck, trying to follow where I had initially heard Maureen's voice. And there she is. As I walked down the deck, her figure seemed to get closer and closer—I can hear my doom. She's got her hands on her hips, outside the café, and she's _not _happy.

"Lucille!" she shouted impatiently, pointing to the ground in front of her. "Get over here this instant!" I quickened my pace and when I finally stood in front of her, she pointed into the café. "You do realize they're serving breakfast, don't you?" she asked, irritated.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you're not in there _because_…?" I'm not in there because I needed to know why my co-worker was a jerk last night. Instead of saying that, I merely bit my tongue. I'm not going to say _anything_ that I'm going to regret later.

"There's no real reason, ma'am." Besides the fact that curiosity got the better of me and could probably kill me at this point.

"Then, why aren't you in there, _working_?"

"I will be, ma'am," I told her confidently. She sighed tiredly.

"Lucille, I really don't know what I'm going to do with you. I shouldn't have to keep reminding you of your position on this liner." She doesn't _have_ to, she just likes hearing herself speak half the time. "I can't have incompetent stewards working for this company. You understand that, don't you?" I forced a nod, but I have to admit, I contemplated pushing her overboard at the way she spoke to me. She speaks to me as if I were a child! "Either way…" She sighed heavily. "Just get to work and don't let me catch you off the job again. Do you understand?" I curtseyed, when all I want to do is throw myself overboard.

"Yes, Ms. Kexington." There was a pause, and she just stared at me before she blew her short fuse.

"Well, _go_!" she said angrily, pointing into the café. "Go on—Do something useful, productive!"

"Yes, ma'am."


	14. Quite the Busy Morning

I brushed past Maureen and into the bustling café. Why does it always feel like I'm in here? Oh, that's because I always _am_ in here. Silly me to forget that. A waiter almost knocked me over as I glanced about the room. All royalty—just as I suspected. Maybe this is why I refuse to come in here. I can't stand the stench of money. I went towards the kitchen, to see where I could help, trying to forget the rope burn my fingers have endured these past few days from the corsets…Suddenly, I was pulled down into an empty chair by a quick hand. I looked up from my wrist to the person who owned the arm—Alan.

"Alan?" I questioned in a hiss. "What the—"

"Lucy, my girl, pleasure to have you join us!" a familiar voice chuckfled. Do I even want to look? I hesitated but looked over to my left to see that Oliver character, the rich old man, sitting comfortably in a wicker chair, a tea cup in one hand. Well, doesn't he look comfortable? And it looks as if I just dropped from the sky, I now realize—thanks to Alan.

"Hello, sir," I said, attempting to be pleasant, even though I know my teeth are clenched. I'm ready to lunge for Alan's throat.

"Care for some tea?" Oliver offered, holding up the tea cup in his hand higher than before. I shook my head. I'll die with a tea cup in my hand at this rate. "It's cold."

"No, no thank you, sir," I managed to stammer. "Thank you, but I really have to get going—" I stood, attempting to make a getaway, but Alan hopped up from his seat and took my wrist again. He gave me a pleading look, as if bored out of his mind.

"Please," he hissed, "help." Should I really help him? I smiled to myself. Damn it, he really does look like he needs some assistance, especially with Oliver looking as if he's ready to chat it up into the afternoon. I took a step forward, about to walk past him, and Alan's jaw dropped, almost to the floor. "Oh, come on, Lucy!" he hissed, now angry. "I apologized!"

"Oh, Lucy, please do join us," Oliver pleaded, his voice not changing an octave. "A woman at our table would do wonders for our reputations, wouldn't it, Alan?" Oliver chuckled at his own humor as Alan forced a nod in reply. In reality, I saw him eyeing the knives next to an unused breakfast plate. He can't kill passengers—there's got to be a rule against that.

"Easy, boy," I said into his ear, trying not to laugh, as I sat back down. I guess me sitting here for a moment or two won't kill me. "I suppose I can stay," I told Oliver, "for a minute, anyway." He immediately brightened as Alan sighed heavily, completely and utterly relieved before sitting down himself. He slumped back into his chair and covered his eyes from the world with his hat. Oliver didn't seem to notice, he looks pretty happy if I do say so myself. "Are you having a pleasant voyage so far, sir?" I asked politely, folding my hands into my lap. This is how Alan should behave around the royalty. What am I: his mother? Must I show him everything? Oliver merely laughed.

"Am I going to have to write on my forehead, _It's Oliver, not sir_, before you get it right?" He smiled, wider than before, probably because I can feel my cheeks turning red. I realize he's kidding, it just took a second to catch that. "I was just telling Alan one Hell of a story—" Alan, hearing his own name, stood at that point, standing me up with him.

"Alan, what the—" What does he want? For me to stay here with the royalty or go with him?

"And I kept trying to tell him I'm going to get fired, but does he listen?" he whispered into my ear. He shook his head at me, rolling his eyes before I even uttered a word.

"I take that as a no…?" I murmured. He nodded.

"Do you think you could keep him company while I try to run?" He went to run past me, but I took him by the arm, making him back up to see me again. I think Oliver's enjoying the spectacle, to be completely honest.

"But, Alan, he wants to talk to _you_," I told him, trying not to laugh. This should be a great story to tell anyone who'll listen once we dock.

"Actually," Oliver cut in, "anyone who's willing to listen is welcome to join me." I shot Alan a look, and he glanced at me with an expression of, _what did I tell you_. But, he hasn't told me anything.

"Really, Lucy, I've got to work. Maureen knows about last night…"

"Did she confront you?" His eyes lowered.

"Well…" his voice seemingly trained off.

"Well, what?" I asked impatiently.

"Well, _no_…there was no confrontation." He hesitated. "But, she's got eyes in the back of her head and she just _knows_ we weren't working—She's got that mean expression on her face."

"Her face is stuck that way," I informed him.

"Either way, I'm not losing my job over it. I can't afford to sit here and listen to him go on about his life…"

"And why not?"

"Lucy, at this rate, I'll get fired and have _no_ job. Is that what you want?" I didn't answer, but glanced over at Oliver, still sitting at the wicker table, a tea cup in his hands, looking as if he's lost to the world.

"And you think _I _worry about employment," I mumbled. "Are you sure you can't stay?" I suddenly begged. "Maureen is already watching _me_ as it is."

"Maureen _always_ watches you. It's like bird-watching, it's never dull." He held his hands together, as if in prayer. "Please, Lucy?" he pleaded. I sighed. This is the second man who has begged me this morning!

"Oh, Alan, I can't," I told him, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I mean to be. "I'm too _selfish_, with my own troubles, to sit and have a cup of tea." I rolled my eyes.

"Hey, I apologized for that!" I smiled.

"I know you did. I just won't let you forget it, after the fact."

"I'm sorry for what I said," he apologized again. "What do I have to do?" he suddenly whispered. "Get you flowers, chocolate?"

"Both would be nice," I admitted.

"…He's not dull, Luce," Alan tried to say, enticing me. I rolled my eyes.

"If he's not dull, then why do you look bored out of your skull?" I questioned.

"Well…I _am_ bored, but it doesn't mean you'll be." I sighed again, before forcing myself to sit in Alan's seat across from Oliver. I can't believe I'm doing this.

"Ah, Lucy," he laughed, "care to stay with us, after all?"

"Actually, I've got to run," Alan interrupted, before mouthing to me, _I owe you_. Yes, he does. I nodded. I can't believe I'm doing this!

"What do you have to do?" I asked, with just a bit of sarcasm.

"I don't know…I can go walk the dogs, I guess…"

"A little early for that, don't you think?" He ignored me and turned his attention to Oliver.

"Lucy should keep you excellent company, Oliver."

"I think she will," he agreed. As Alan walked past me, he put a quick hand on my shoulder before making a complete dash for it. He glanced over his shoulder every minute or so and as he did that, Oliver managed a smile at me. "So…" His voice seemingly died away.

"So…" I allowed my voice to trail off. What am I supposed to say?

"Well, I'm glad you decided to come out of the woodwork," he suddenly said, before laughing. "Alan looked as bored as Hell."

"Oh, I'm sure he wasn't." He stopped short.

"Uh-oh, no saying things you don't mean," Oliver scolded, shaking his index finger like a parent. "Just because you work here and I'm a passenger…remember that?" I nodded.

"Of course." I cleared my throat. "So, what were you two discussing?"

"Well, besides the fact that Alan could've cared less?" I laughed unexpectedly.

"Yeah, besides that!"

"Life, I suppose."

"Life is a pretty broad exception," I mused, cupping my head in my hand.

"Well, we discussed life and Titanic."

"A little less general," I admitted. He stared at me, intently and I couldn't look him in the eye. This is really strange—It's almost as bad as yesterday. Then, of course, there was silence, just like _yesterday_. Just hearing clinking china makes me want to get up and work.

"You know, Lucy," he stated, "you don't have to stay here. I understand you have a job to do. It isn't your job to keep an old man like me company—" I shook my head at him.

"No, no. It's nice to sit down for once." I just don't want Maureen to see me sitting, doing nothing.

"Well." He smiled. "Are you sure?" I nodded. "Okay, then." He leaned back into his wicker chair, placing his tea cup onto its' proper saucer on the table. Yet more silence and I hesitantly leaned back into my chair. "Can you not be so tense?" he asked of me. I glanced up from the table to him. "You look like you're waiting for the ceiling to cave in. Relax." I let out a held-in breath, attempting to relax my shoulders. "There we are." He took a quick sip of tea. "You can relax, Lucy, it's not a crime. I'm not going to throw anything at you, you know." I smiled at that. The sarcasm! "Why do I have a feeling first-class passengers attempt to throw utensils at the crew?"

"That's only the little ones!" I admitted. More silence and I cleared my throat, looking at him—expecting him to say something. He was checking the time with his pocket watch, seemingly slow. I've got a job to do and he's checking the time? I looked around the room and people were eating, drinking tea, talking and laughing politely amongst themselves. Oh, to have money. But, if I'm going to be stuck here, I might as well enjoy myself. Right? "You know," I began, "I would really love some tea." He smiled.

"I thought so." He picked up the teapot in the middle of the table and took the extra tea cup beside it, carefully pouring the tea into the cup before sliding it over to me. "Us cold tea enthusiasts must stay together," he said, with a grin. Didn't he say that…_yesterday_? "We're like an untalented band, Lucy. We must stay together, even when we get rotten vegetables thrown at us."

"How about _utensils_?" I suggested, managing a slight smile. He smiled.

"Vegetables or utensils, either or both, we must stick together. There are few cold tea enthusiasts out there, you know." He's crazy, he really is. He's absolutely… _insane_—and yet, I can't help but smile. What a busy morning this is turning out to be.


	15. Through the Porthole

"Lucy, you are one person I wish I could emulate." I almost spat out my tea in his face, but merely forced a nod at Oliver, shakily placing down the cup back onto the table. I glanced around me, only to remember everyone's been gone for maybe an hour or so now. Olivier has kept me in on his flow of conversation for a while now—and he's actually quite interesting. Alan, as usual, is wrong!

Maybe it's been longer than an hour that I've been here, maybe it's been shorter. I really couldn't tell. I'm actually having a great time with someone who could be my grandfather. He's a funny, amusing old man, with ideas and sayings that could drive you mad—but I understand them. I've laughed more sitting here than I have through this whole voyage, with the exception of last night's festivities. And the best part? No Maureen. We've gone through a whole range of topics, from the weather to the food aboard. He asked me, maybe minutes ago, why I had boarded and I told him it was because of Jonathan. Now I suppose he finds it incredible I'm only here because of my family. When you're made of money like Oliver Bern, I suppose someone else's troubles don't quite make the connection to your brain. But, for someone who dresses so fancy and seems so proper, he really acts like the rest of the crew does when we're not around passengers. And I like that about him—He's grounded and doesn't put on airs.

"Why's that?" I asked skeptically. Why would he want to emulate someone like me?

"You do everything for everyone, but nothing for yourself."

"Oh, that's not true," I argued. "My job is to cater to everyone else."

"But, your Jonathan—He sounds like a little sweetheart." I had to giggle at that.

"He's a good boy," I agreed, "I just—I just love him."

"I never said you didn't. Getting on this liner shows that, my dear." A compliment? Was that a _compliment_? I had to smile at that. "And that's why a pretty girl like you is working here," he mused aloud, answering his question from the day before, rubbing his chin, as if in thought.

"What about you?" I asked.

"Me?" He chuckled. "What about me?"

"Why are you on board?"

"Business, as usual," he groaned. "When all I want is a nice holiday." _Holiday_? He means vacation, doesn't he? Doesn't he?

"I would love a vacation," I sighed, blinking away dreams.

"Where to?" I shrugged. "Oh, come now! A young girl like you? You have no idea where you'd like to go on a holiday? I find that hard to believe!"

"Maybe I'd go to the beach," I told him. "I've never been."

"_Never_? You've _never _been to a beach?" His jaw dropped. "Really?" I nodded, trying not to blush. "I thought everyone's been to the beach!"

"Not me."

"Never as a child, even?" I shook my head. "Well, you have to go to the beach! That's one of the hundreds of things you need to do before you die. There's a list, you know."

"Oh, really?" He nodded.

"Mm-hmm. The list of one-thousand things to do before you die."

"And how do I get a copy?" He smiled, gesturing over his shoulder at the door.

"You can buy one at the gift shop." I had to hide my giggles. He had said it so seriously—When he started talking about a list, I thought he was serious! "They're not that expensive," he continued, "and completely worth their price tag."

"Sure they are! Sure!" He smiled, almost proud of himself, proud that he made me laugh. I'm tired myself, and at this point, I find anything amusing. "But, I've been to lakes and ponds before, Oliver!" Granted, I've never actually been _swimming_ in the bodies of water, but I've been there. My father tried to give me lessons once, you know, but as he once put it: "My darling Lucy, a swimming lesson can not be done without you getting into the swimming hole." Obviously, that never happened.

"Bah!" Oliver exclaimed, shaking his head. "A pond is absolutely _nothing_ like the beach."

"Well, there's sand!" I argued.

"Yes, but it's not _beach_ sand. You see, Lucy…" He paused, biting down on his lower lip. "I'm not exactly sure how to describe it…" He glanced up from the table to me. "Beach sand is just different than sand you'd find at a pond or lake. Maybe it's the salt, I don't know. It's just…it's just _different_." He eyed me. "Either way, you need to get yourself to a beach!"

"I suppose I'll have to get a list like that of my own," I mused.

"Absolutely. Why, my Susan used to collect sand from all of the beaches around the globe…" I was about to ask him who Susan actually was, but I heard stomping. Of feet. Feet stomping. And looking up from the table, I can see Maureen has just come through the door off of the deck—just looking around, looking for some utter idiot to pounce on. Well, I'm not going to sit here and look like a fool. I stood up immediately, standing near Oliver as if I was serving him.

"Coffee, sir?" I asked, rather loudly, picking up the teapot we've both been drinking out of.

"What are you doing?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Sit back down. I can get the coffee myself—"

"Lucille! Oh, Lucille!" Maureen. Oliver glanced over his shoulder at her, just as she saw me standing by the table. He looked back at me and must've seen my terrified expression, for he stood, leaning against his cane. All the while he kept his back to her.

"Is that your employer?" he questioned in a whisper. How did he know _that_? I know we discussed a few things, but never Satan! I nodded at him.

"Yes, but how did you…?"

"I've been around the block a few times, my dear," he murmured. But, but, oh God—I'm a dead woman. I really am. She knows I haven't been working—some royal must've been complaining about her corset not being tightened quite right and she wanted me to fix it, but alas, I was nowhere to be found. I was lounging about, when I should've been _working_. I kept my eyes on the tablecloth, refusing to make eye contact with Oliver. She'll notice, I know she will. She always does. Maureen finally stomped her way towards us, pushing a few chairs out of the way. She looked as if she was about to yell, until she saw the teapot in my arms.

"Lucille," she said, rather sweetly, almost _too_ sweet, "what are you doing?" Her teeth sound completely clenched.

"The young lady was just about to get me some coffee," Oliver intervened, stepping out from behind the chair and smiling widely at Maureen. "Weren't you?" he asked me. I froze. He eyed me, nodding for me to say something, anything…trying to get me to speak…

"Yes," I murmured. Maureen eyed me angrily. "Yes, yes, _sir_," I stammered, correcting myself. First he doesn't want me to call him sir and now, I have to.

"How do you do?" Oliver asked Maureen, taking her hand and kissing it gently. What is he _doing_? Am I having a panic attack, am I imagining this? I practically fell over as she blushed crimson. Can you imagine? My stone-cold boss actually blushing out of embarrassment over a quick kiss! I felt my wrist for a pulse, and sure enough I have one—but my heart's racing. "Oliver Bern, at your service." He suddenly winked at me, but Maureen, thankfully, didn't seem to notice. Oh, I get it! He's buying me time. Oh! I owe this man my life. Him and William Murdoch go on my little list of the men I owe. I will make it up to both of them—I promise. I seemed to snap out of my mind and glanced at Satan, who_ still_ isn't talking. "It's a pleasure," he began, trying to ease her into conversation, "Mrs.…"

"_Ms_," she quickly corrected, snapping out of her somewhat trance. "Ms. Kexington. Really, Maureen is just fine with me." Oliver dropped her hand and glanced at me. He had won her over. That was the look on his face, anyway—the look of accomplishment. A typical man. But, he is fantastic at being charming—and she's falling for it. Maureen cleared her throat as I tried not to laugh out loud. I wish I could take a photograph of this scene! "Lucille," she quipped, "go get the man his coffee! This is _Oliver Bern_ we're speaking to!" I don't see her enthusiasm. I know he has money, he's a first-class passenger—but I've never even heard of him before this voyage. "Go on, get! He didn't spend his hard-earned money to sit here without coffee!"

She pushed me—Can you believe the nerve? She actually _pushed _me, quite hard, in fact, towards the kitchen door. Oliver tried not to let his jaw hang wide open at me getting physically abused at the hand of a White Star line employee, but he's not trying very hard. Either way, I made my way towards the kitchen door as she began to chat it up with Oliver—who was trying to save my seat—not allowing Maureen to sit. I watched out of the corner of my eye, walking as slowly as I could, as Oliver sat down and quickly put his feet up on my chair, just to save my spot. A little giggle escaped my mouth. Maureen usually _cringes_ if someone has any body part on White Star Line furniture, but she didn't cringe whatsoever. At all. Amazing! Incredible! I must be dreaming. He's such a charmer! I finally found a man who is completely charming. Too old for me, granted, but he's still a charmer just the same.

I pushed the kitchen door to walk in, but…it's not opening. Why isn't it opening up all the way? It usually does. How can I actually get into the one-hundred degree kitchen if I can't open the damn door? I pushed the door with all of my might and I heard something slam against it. A cart. At least, I think it was a cart—but carts…they don't talk! I heard groans of pain.

"God damn!" one yelled.

"Shit, my head!"

"We're standing here, you know!" shouted a third. Who is that? I wiggled my way through the open space, as far as the door would allow me to open. And I find the entire kitchen staff, including some stewards—Alan, of course, in the group, all trying to get a peek into the café through the high porthole window implanted in the door. They were watching Oliver and I? Really? They must've been! Some are rubbing their sides, their foreheads, probably from their encounter with the wooden door.

"Did I interrupt the show, gentlemen?" I asked, resting my hands on my hips. I pushed the door shut all the way, making a kitchen slave fall to the floor. He must've been leaning against the door. Alan pulled him to his feet, keeping his eyes on the dusty window and not actually watching what he's doing. That's typical, he never watches where he's going or what he's doing. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"Watching," Alan answered, quickly glancing through the window once more before turning his attention to me. I shoved the teapot into his hands before he could argue.

"Nobody seems to be _working_." No one responded to me. "What is this, a circus act?" I gestured to the crowd near the door, all who refuse to scatter, even though myself—being the main attraction, is here. With them. They're fighting for the window, to see what's happening. "Need peanuts?" No one responded.

"What do you expect me to do with this?" Alan asked me, holding up the teapot.

"I need coffee."

"This is a teapot."

"I see that, Alan," I replied, "thank you. What I want to know is why you're telling me what a teapot is when I need you to make me some coffee."

"Well, don't pull a Maureen on me—"

"Listen, you owe me," I interrupted. "I sat with him. Get. The. Coffee. And don't make me ask you again." He groaned, but brushed past me and towards the coffee beans. I then turned to the crowded kitchen crew at the porthole window. "You know," I told them, taking a step closer, "if you were watching Oliver and I, the show's over."

"Oh, we were!" Alan called out.

"But, it's not over," Percy argued. Oh, how I love dishwashers. "It's just getting started." I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Just look!"

"Look at that!" one whistled, whose name I know but can't remember.

"Can you believe that?" the cook who had fallen asked to the group. "She's _talking_ to him!"

"The guy is loaded!" another slave exclaimed, rather loudly. Now, I'm confused.

"Loaded with _what_?" I asked them.

"Cash!" they all shouted at me consecutively. I took a step back, my ears in pain from the yell. Are my ears actually _bleeding_?

"It's Oliver Bern, of course he has money!" one crew member laughed. How come all of these people know who he is and I don't? I'm the only one who took the time to sit and _actually _talk with him and yet—money wasn't even brought up. Money, I know he has it. What does he even do, what's his job? Oh, he probably doesn't even work! New question: What's his business? He talked of it, earlier this morning, but what was it? Oh, I know this…I know this…Coal. That was it! Coal. He's in the coal business, he supplies coal to ships and such—which probably includes the White Star Line. Well, no wonder he's rich and travelling in first-class! I knew coal had a lot of money to go around, but everyone seems to know who he is—so I'm guessing he's rich and _also_ famous. Who would've thought! Percy turned to me.

"Didn't you know who he was?" he asked.

"Well, I know his name—"

"He's always in the papers!"

"He _is_?" I don't usually read the newspaper. Yet again, no time. Percy nodded.

"Mm-hmm. Why else would we be watching what was going on?" I shrugged.

"I don't know; maybe because you thought he was interesting," I suggested, sarcastic.

"You were certainly talking to him for a while," Alan commented. "What I want to know is: when's the wedding?" His voice echoed through the kitchen as I whirled around to face him. Everyone began to laugh.

"Do you want me to find the kitchen knives or are you just tempting me?" I threatened. The giggles died down immediately, yet Alan didn't even flinch. I can't even scare him anymore—a sure sign that I've spent too much time with him.

"So, you want to see?" he asked, motioning to the porthole.

"Where's the coffee?" He better not change the subject on me now.

"Do you want to see or not?" he asked.

"No…" My voice trailed off as I looked at the crowd.

"You sure?" he questioned skeptically. "Are you sure you don't want to see the train wreck in progress?" I forced a nod.

"Positive." I do want to see what's going on, but I refuse to lower my standards and spy—

"Oh my God!" one crew member whistled.

"Alright, that's it! I want to see!" I exclaimed urgently, taking Alan's wrist. He began to laugh. "Oh, stop it!" He pushed his way through other crew members, towards the porthole. I can't see a thing—I'm too small! I stood on my tiptoes, but I can only see Maureen, or is it Oliver's, head…? "I can't see a thing!"

"Here." Alan's voice rang through the still groaning crowd from their encounter with the door and myself, as clear as a bell and suddenly, my feet were off the ground. I almost screamed, merely because I didn't expect it. Alan! He had lifted me up off the ground to see what all the fuss was about!

"Oh, God, Alan, not too high!" I hissed.

"Can you see?" I nodded.

"Perfectly." I can now see, through the dusty window, Maureen still chatting it up with Oliver, all the while trying to take a seat. Oliver, of course is returning the chat, like he always seems to do. "Are you okay?" I asked him, glancing down at him. He seemed completely unfazed to be holding me up.

"I'm fine. Look while you can, though. I can only hold you for so long!"

"I swear to you, Alan, you drop me, expect a broken nose!" He merely grinned, yet again unfazed.

"You mean, like _this_?" He began to sway, with me in his arms. I shrieked, rather loudly, my voice echoing across the kitchen as the rest of the group shushed us. Alan, yet again, is unaffected as I clung to him for life. "Geez, Lucy, you're not _that_ heavy." I sighed, trying to calm myself as I looked back at the window. It's so dirty—I can barely see anything. I took my sleeve and quickly wiped it—while a few mumbles of thanks went through the crowd. You'd think for a new ship there wouldn't be so much dirt—but sure enough, gray dust is all over my sleeve.

"You men are pigs in," I told them, scolding, gesturing to my sleeve.

"Shh, I can't hear!" Percy hissed at me. "And move your big head—I can't see a thing!" I took his comment with a grain of salt and slumped a little so everyone else could see the circus act—I didn't slump for Percy.

I watched through the window with complete concentration—trying to read Oliver's lips as he talked with Maureen, who is still standing. She keeps inching her way over to the chair I had been sitting in when Alan had first dragged me down into it, but Oliver won't allow it. He rested his cane on the chair's arms, making it impossible for her to sit. Clever, clever, Oliver! I could hear bits and pieces of what they were saying, but not all. Damn wooden doors.

"You have a wonderful crew," I heard Oliver say.

"Well, they're lazy sometimes," Maureen replied.

"They deserve a break once in a while," he said, with a laugh. "You know, every crew member I've seen aboard has been working. No one ever sits." Except for Lucy. I'm waiting for him to say that.

"That's how it should be!" she laughed.

"Can you believe her?" Alan muttered. "Gabbing it up, while we're in here, working like we're stowaways?"

"I know," I agreed, rolling my eyes.

"She's got some nerve!"

"Alan, talk any louder, the show's going to be over," I warned. He shut his mouth as I leaned closer to the door, until I practically had my ear to the wood.

"I think they deserve a raise, the crew," Oliver told her. I hid my laughter. He complimented her earlier so he could tell her about us all needing a raise? Not that I don't agree, but… "You seem like such a no-nonsense employer, Ms. Kexington—"

"Maureen!"

"Maureen, yes, of course, how could I forget?" He smiled at her. He's fantastic, the old charmer. His charming ways make me think, though. It makes me think, that he's like that with every woman he meets and not just me. Not that I would be disappointed, I'd just be _surprised_ if that was the case. He seems like he has a lot of class—too much class for this liner, and I hope I'm right. It would be awful if he turned out to be a scumbag, wouldn't it? I spent the whole morning with him because of Alan. Alan. Remind me never to do another favor for him. I need to write _that_ down. "Your name suits you, _Maureen_."

"And so does yours," she complimented. I almost vomited. This is revolting.

"Any kissing?" Alan asked, sarcastic. I giggled.

"Not yet—they're getting to know each other!" And as everyone around me chatted lowly amongst themselves, I watched. And watched. And Oliver continued to talk, a large smile plastered on his face—along with Maureen, who continued to gab. It's like they were made for each other.

"BOO!" There was one equal scream of fright and one equal jump. Alan, however, couldn't handle his own weight, let alone mine and we both fell to the floor as the rest of our crew scattered, just like ants. And in one single moment, one flash, everyone was gone—back to where they belonged, back to their posts or whatnot, back to doing their jobs—and Alan was on top of me, on the kitchen floor. "Are you two alright?"

I looked up and there stood Thomas Andrews, a large grin on his face. I focused my eyes on Alan, who is now proceeding to crush me. He hasn't moved a muscle since we ended up on the ground—and trust me, I would've known if he had moved. I would've felt it. I now notice his hat thrown to the wayside from the fall. But…Oh my God. We're in a completely _inappropriate_ position, with him on top of me—I blushed crimson. Alan removed his head from my shoulder, in a complete and utter daze, shaking his head. He looked around us, to Mr. Andrews, and then to me, the lovely stewardess underneath him. He blushed beet red, even more than me.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Andrews," he said nonchalantly, as if he wasn't on top of me, in the middle of Titanic's kitchen. He was about to tip his hat to him, until he realized it wasn't on his head anymore. He quickly grabbed it off the floor and placed it onto his head, tipping it off to the Master Shipbuilder.

"Alan," I hissed. I can't breathe. He's crushing my lungs.

"Oh my God, Lucy." He turned his attention to me, not having heard the comment about me not being able to breathe. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head, are you bleeding?" He's panicking now, and I _still_ can't breathe.

"Alan."

"Let me see your head—"

"Alan." I repeated it this time between clenched teeth. I'm probably turning purple, but he's too panicked to even notice that he's crushing me. I may be seeing stars…

"Here, how many fingers am I holding up?" He held up three fingers.

"Alan, you're crushing me!" I shoved him off of me and sat up immediately. Probably too fast, because the room is sort of spinning. But, as soon as his body was off of mine, I could breathe. Fresh air! Well, it's not necessarily fresh air—the whole room smells of grease and food, but it certainly is better than not being able to breathe at all. "God, Alan! Could you _not_ seeing me turning violet!?" I asked, coughing.

"Oh, _I _was doing that?" he asked, completely clueless. I sighed angrily at him, slapping his hat off of his head. "Hey! I didn't mean it!" I glanced up at Mr. Andrews and even though I'm trying not to, I blushed red yet again. He merely smiled, not noticing the inappropriateness of having my co-worker on top of me merely seconds before. It's either he didn't notice or he pretended _not_ to notice.

"Lucy, are you alright?" he asked, concerned, bending down to my level. I coughed for another minute or so, and after the fit had passed, I nodded at him. "Are you sure?" he asked, skeptic.

"I'm positive," I reassured him as Alan stood, offering me his hand. "Should I even trust you?" I asked, pretending to be timid.

"Oh, come on." He took my hand and pulled me up to my feet, as Mr. Andrews stood himself, at his full height. "Lucy, I am _so_ sorry," he apologized.

"I thought you said I wasn't that heavy!" I exclaimed, fixing my dress to the best of my ability.

"You aren't, I got spooked—"

"Which was my fault," Mr. Andrews intervened, "I was wondering what the fuss was all about over at the door. Never in my life have I ever seen so many people crowded in a corner. I'm sorry about scaring everyone so. I didn't expect such a reaction." He then gestured to the door. "What's going on, anyway?"

"Oh, _nothing_." I shot a look at Alan and he ran for the door.

"Oh, _really_?" Mr. Andrews chuckled. "I can take a good gossip now and then. I'm not ancient, you know."

"I know, sir—"

"What's going on?" he asked again, his Irish accent as present as ever.

"They're gone." I turned to face Alan as he gestured to the window.

"Both of them?" I brushed past Mr. Andrews to look through the porthole window, which of course—I can't reach, anyway. Alan nodded.

"Both of them," he replied. "Want me to lift you?" he suddenly asked, beginning to laugh.

"No thanks—I'll take your word for it. Anyhow." I turned to Mr. Andrews. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"I actually came to tell you that the search is over." I raised an eyebrow.

"What search?" He smiled.

"The notebook search." He pulled out a black notebook from his inner jacket pocket and held it up for me to see.

"Oh, you found it!" I exclaimed, delighted. "And just where was it?" He sighed, shaking his head.

"I'm such a fool—I left it near my blueprints. In my bedroom." He forced a laugh. "Oh, don't think me as an old fool, Lucy. I knew it was somewhere!"

"I don't think you're an old fool, Mr. Andrews." How could I? He doesn't look that old to me. "I'm so glad you found it. I was keeping my eyes out for it!"

"So was I. And then, I found it after breakfast, just sitting on the table. I must've passed it hundreds of times without even noticing it until today." He smiled. "I appreciate your help, Lucy. Even if it was unneeded."

"Oh, that's alright, Mr. Andrews." He glanced down at his pocket watch.

"Well, I better be off—Another tour to give. More errors to find."

"All in a day's work, right?"

"Right." He snapped his fingers. "And don't think I forgot about my dinner invitation, I didn't. Before we dock, I promise you." I smiled. Wouldn't that be grand? Sitting with all of the people I forced into whalebone? It should be a real treat.

"That would be wonderful, sir."

"I think so, too." And as he brushed past me, I turned my attention back to the kitchen, where everyone is now working—like they should've been when I had first come in, instead of watching Oliver and I chat. They all glanced at me, one by one, as if trying to guilt-trip me by watching Maureen's encounter with Oliver Bern. They were watching just as much as me—and they were watching longer! I sighed, annoyed.

"Oh, stop it, you bunch of hypocrites!"


	16. The Fix Is In

"I guess the man's made of money," I informed Alan that afternoon, as we made our way down the deck, myself holding a few blankets in my arms and Alan holding a tray of food and drinks. The blankets, I'd like to point out, are very heavy and why I'm not carrying the tray, I don't know. But, they're clean, just washed and perfect for the royalty to snuggle up in and take a little cat nap. I've been placing them on chairs without blankets. What intellectual work this is, huh?

"Seriously?" He whistled at me, before his jaw dropped slightly. "He told me he was a coal miner in Pennsylvania." I laughed out loud at that. I couldn't imagine Oliver Bern, the man with a cane he'll use against you, being a manual laborer, working in the dark coal mines of the United States! Maybe in his younger years, but never now.

"Well, he _lied_."

"Yeah, I thought that was a little strange for someone his age." I had to laugh at the seriousness in his voice. "It was early! I didn't care what he did!"

"Son, tea!" a first-class royal shouted from across the deck, sitting on one of the many deck chairs surrounding us. Alan scurried in front of me to get the man his tea—pouring a cup and handing him both the cup and saucer.

"Anything else, sir?" Alan asked, in a completely sophisticated accent. The man shook his head. "Excuse me." Alan gestured to me and I ran to catch up with him before we continued to make our way down the deck.

"Besides, he told me you looked bored as Hell," I commented.

"What are you, a parrot?" Alan shot me a look. "Must you repeat everything he had to say? Just because he's Oliver Bern—"

"I just repeat what he said about you." Alan grinned at me.

"Did he talk about me a lot?"

"Alan, at this moment in time, we are not discussing our conversation about you."

"Why not? I'm right here—The topic is right here!" He pointed to himself.

"We didn't talk about you."

"Well, what did you talk about? You were with him for a _long_ time, weren't you?"

"Don't be a jerk."

"I'm not, I'm just curious as to what he had to say. I mean, for God's sake, it's Oliver Bern!"

"In all seriousness, did you have any idea how famous he actually was?" I asked. "I mean, obviously he has money—he's first class, but everyone in that damn kitchen knew who he was, what he was about…and they've never uttered a word to him! Did you know?" Alan shook his head.

"I wish I knew," he mumbled. "Don't you think if I had known, I would've stuck around this morning? No matter what Maureen had to say about it?"

"How did you find out?"

"Percy." He answered this completely nonchalantly, as if Percy was the answer to everyone's problems. "And besides how much money he has, don't you think it's a little odd he's not spending any time with his wife?"

"Is she even on board?" He shrugged.

"Who knows. He could and should be writing letters to her or something—Not flirting with the likes of Maureen." Is he _serious_? Oliver is a man after Alan's own heart! They're both enormous flirts.

"The more he talks with her, the less she should yell at us," I tried to point out.

"I hope that's true."

"And what if he _isn't_ married?" I suddenly asked aloud. "What if he's just a lonely old man with no one in the world?" Alan began to laugh out loud. "What? Is it that hard to believe?"

"No, no, no…Not that." He paused. "What I was thinking was with all of his money, he could and _should_ hire some woman to parade around to be his wife!" I want that job. "I'll have to recommend you, Luce," he joked.

"I will strangle you with these blankets," I threatened, holding up a blanket before placing it down onto an empty deck chair. "Do you understand me?"

"You know, you're pretty violent for a woman."

"No, no," I scorned. "Sex is not part of this conversation." Alan grinned at me. Oh, I didn't mean _that_.

"Don't you wish it was?" he asked, sarcastic.

"Get back on topic, Lover Boy," I instructed.

"All I'm saying is that he could hire a woman to parade around as his wife," Alan repeated. "It would be a great job, I bet—Probably pay wonderful. Better than this, anyway."

"I wouldn't want that job," I mumbled.

"A million women would _kill_ for that job."

"Then let them pull each other's eyes out for it. I prefer catering to being someone's arm candy, thank you very much."

"Oh, but you'd look so cute together!"

"Alan, stop yourself while you're ahead."

"Hey, if I was a woman—I'd take the job."

"We could always dress you up and put your name in for the position," I told him sarcastically, throwing another blanket onto another empty deck chair.

"Really?"

"Alan, shut up." I sighed. "But…"

"But, _what_?" Alan pestered.

"But, at least to me, it seems so odd for him not to be married. He's nice enough to meet someone, why hasn't he?"

"Maybe he's one of those rich fellows who leave their wives home with the children and parade around, looking for a young woman to have an affair with."

"Do you even hear yourself speak?"

"No—not being able to hear myself talk is a joy I want to share with the world." He shot me a look. "Come on, Luce, be serious."

"Was he wearing a ring?" I asked suddenly.

"A ring? What ring?"

"A wedding ring, you fool."

"Actually…" His voice trailed off and he slowly began to shake his head at me. "I don't think he was. Did you see one?" I shook my head. Going back into my memory banks, I don't remember him having any type of ring on…on any of his fingers. "Maybe his wife's dead or something." He said it so nonchalantly, I slapped him on the arm. "Okay, what did I do now!?"

"It's not normal for you to speak of someone's dead wife like that," I scolded.

"Hey, we don't even know if she _is_ dead! He might not even be married!"

"He must be, he has to be."

"Why do you think that?" Susan! He spoke of a woman, this morning! How could I not have remembered that little utterance of a woman's name—that was right before Maureen came into the room!

"Susan," I said simply, shrugging a shoulder.

"_Susan_?" I nodded.

"He said something about Susan, his Susan. He called her, my Susan—He said she used to collect beach sand from beaches all over the world."

"Okay, then." Alan gave me a doubtful look. "It still might not have been his wife." He doesn't see what I see. Oliver said _used_ to. She could be gone or dead—He's alone.

"No, no, no. Don't you see?" Alan shook his head at me. "He said _used_ to. He used past tense. That means Susan's either gone or dead."

"Or it could mean that she doesn't collect beach sand anymore." I sighed angrily at him.

"Alright, let's change the subject before I kill you."

"But, you know." He stopped short.

"What?"

"Never mind. It's stupid."

"Oh, come on. Tell me."

"Well…if what you say is true, if that Oliver guy is really by himself…It sounds to me like he needs a new wife."

"A _new_ wife?" He nodded.

"Think about it. You and I can't keep the old man company forever. He needs someone who is actually romantically attached to him—someone who will listen to him babble." I stared at Alan, trying not to let my jaw drop. So, he _can_ come through with a grand idea…when he turns his brain on.

"You know," I laughed, "that actually _makes_ sense."

"Well, gee, thanks, Luce," he replied sarcastically.

"But, there's just one problem with your idea." He groaned.

"Because there always has to be a problem, right?"

"No…but this _is_ a problem. Every woman on his ship is married, engaged, widowed—"

"We've just got to find the widowed ones, like him."

"And how will we know if they're widowed?"

"Easy. No ring, alone all the time…"

"So, we're going to have to stalk these women and make sure they're alone?" I asked, confused.

"Well, you're not going to ask them, are you?" I shook my head. No! "Then, I guess stalking is a possibility."

"It's our only option," I corrected.

"If you want to put it that way, yeah." He shook his head at me. "Lucy, don't you see?"

"See _what_?"

"If we set him up with someone, he won't bother us anymore."

"He doesn't _bother _me." I hate the fact that he considers the poor man a bother.

"He's got a crush on you," Alan informed me, "he _likes_ you. He just _babbles_ to me."

"Oliver does _not_ have a crush on me." Alan looked at me, completely unconvinced. "He doesn't."

"Either way," he sighed, "it's not good when he finds _us_ interesting."

"Was that an insult? I think we're very interesting, thank you very much."

"You know what I mean. We're crew. We're not here to socialize with him or anyone else."

"I know, I know." I sighed as I threw another blanket on yet another empty deck chair.

"We're not getting paid to socialize with passengers," Alan had to say aloud.

"Thank you, Alan, I know that."

"Just reminding."

"I wouldn't mind sitting down for once. He's nice enough."

"He's rich, too."

"It's not about the money! God, Alan, I know you and everyone else in that damn kitchen is obsessed with money—" 

"We're not _obsessed_," Alan corrected, "just curious."

"Curious?" I asked skeptically.

"As to why a man like him would be interested in you."

"Well, I'd like to know why he's interested in _you_." He grinned.

"It must be my charming good looks."

"And me?"

"It must be your _beauty_," he mused. I began to laugh. He said that too seriously for comfort!

"I think he's just lonely."

"He's nice, Lucy."

"He _is_ nice." I hesitated. "Isn't he?" Alan nodded.

"Any woman would be happy to have him as company."

"Don't you mean any woman would be happy to have his _money_?"

"We'll suggest he doesn't bring up the money factor, how's that?"

"You know, what if he doesn't even want to be set up on some blind date?"

"A little companionship never killed anyone."

"Young lady." A voice. Where did that come from? I glanced around only to see Alan standing beside me.

"Did you hear that?" I asked him. He gestured over my shoulder and I turned, to see the topic of our conversation sitting down in a deck chair. "Oliver," I said, surprised. "Hello."

"Talking about me, are you?" he asked, with a grin.

"No, no," Alan said, "we weren't talking about you. Were we, Luce?" I shook my head, forcing a smile. He knows we're lying. He stared at us, skeptically, before clearing his throat.

"Anyhow, I hope I was of some assistance to you this morning, Lucy," Oliver said, a smile still on his face. I must've looked confused, for he added in: "With your employer?" I nodded eagerly.

"Yes, yes, you were! Thank you so much for that, Oliver, I really do appreciate it." He smiled at me.

"Oh, Lucy, you're very welcome. No need for anyone to get shouted out so early in the morning. It was my pleasure, anyway—Anything you need, you just let old Oliver know, okay?" I nodded.

"Okay."

"Care to sit and enjoy the sunshine?" Wouldn't I just love to? Sit around and sip tea with a millionaire—possibly a billionaire? Alan's right, though—shockingly, Alan's actually right for once. Oliver needs someone who can just sit around and sip tea with him, someone to chat with. And it's not me or Alan. I wish it was me, though. I'd love to sit down for _once_ in my existence.

"Miss! A blanket! Over here!" We all glanced down the deck to see a man, possibly the same age as Oliver, gesturing to me. "A blanket?" He's shouting this down the deck and I can feel all eyes on Alan and I. Oh, I'm coming, I'm coming!

"I wish I could," I mumbled, "but…duty calls."

"Oh, of course." He nodded at Alan and then to me. "Don't work too hard now, either of you!"

"No chance of that," Alan grinned as I began down the deck without him. I made my way to the noisy passenger and handed him a clean blanket, while he didn't even thank me. The jerk. I should've threw it at him or smothered him with it. I think throwing it at him would've been better. There has to be a rule about killing the passengers, though. Huh. I heard footsteps and Alan quickly caught up with me and we began to walk, yet again.

"He needs someone," I confirmed, with a nod. Alan merely laughed.

"I told you!"

"Well, who could we possibly find that has the time to sit around and chat with him?" He glanced down at me, his eyes sparkling. "What?" What could possibly be going through his mind?

"Have any idea what I'm thinking?"

"Does it look like I do?" I questioned.

"No…but…I know who we should set Oliver up with."

"Who?" He hesitated, but cleared his throat. "Oh, come now, it can't be _that_ bad!" I laughed.

"I think it is."

"Who is it?" I pestered.

"It could work, though…"

"Who?" I had to stop him from walking so fast. "Don't lead me on. Just tell me." He grinned down at me.

"How about _Maureen_?" 


	17. To Be Cruel

"Have you absolutely lost your _mind_!?" I practically shouted this at Alan in the dark, with little light—on some part of the deck. Before I could even ask him this the first moment he suggested I put Maureen and Oliver on some sort of date, I had, of course, been called by Satan herself and in the meantime, Alan had rushed off. I hadn't been able to find him until after dinner had begun—which is always the way it seems to be. I had to fit the royalty into their corsets, make sure they didn't kill themselves while trying to walk down the corridors of the ship to get to the dining hall, and then I was somewhat free. I'm yet again _stuck_ folding used deck blankets up. Don't these people know how to fold anything or do they just prefer to watch the slaves fold it _for_ them? God. I need a new job.

"Possibly," Alan answered, seemingly unfazed as he helped me fold yet another deck blanket.

"And then you just ran off after that little suggestion!" I shouted, angry.

"I didn't _run_ off," he corrected, "I had something to do. As did you."

"Were you serious?"

"About me having to do something?"

"No, not—"

"Well, I was serious. I had to get the dishes all set up for lunch, if you must know. And then, I had to make more tea and get shouted at by some man in a black overcoat that the tea wasn't what he had wanted—when, in actuality, I had written it down." He held out his hand and in the midst of the little light there is out on the deck, I can see scribblings on his hand.

"Yet again," I sighed, "you can't answer a simple question!"

"What question?"

"Were you serious?"

"Oh, you mean about Maureen and Oliver?" I nodded. Please say no. "Yeah, I _was_ serious."

"Have you absolutely lost your mind!?" I shrieked again.

"Hey, I answered that question!" He stopped short. "Are you trying to trick me?"

"For God's sake, Alan, you _have_ lost your mind! You can't be serious!"

"Well, it would get Maureen off of our backs."

"We can't do that to Oliver."

"Correction." Alan cleared his throat before pointing to me. "_You_ can't do that to Oliver."

"You wouldn't feel bad if we set him up with our boss?" I asked skeptically.

"Not especially, no."

"I thought you liked Oliver!"

"I do! Geez, Luce, just because I want both of them to leave me alone doesn't make a criminal!"

"You're not a criminal," I reassured him, picking up yet another unfolded blanket. "I just think we could do better."

"For her? I don't know about that—" He grinned at me.

"Not for her." I could care less about her. "For _him_."

"You know," he sighed, "just because he has a crush on you doesn't mean you can have him all to yourself." I chuckled at that.

"What?"

"We discussed this, Lucy—He needs someone his age."

"I know, I know…But, we can do better than Maureen. I know we can. We just have to find the right woman, that's all." Which in reality, shouldn't be as difficult as it sounds. But, right now, honestly—it sounds absolutely impossible.

"And she's standing right here." I eyed him. "You know he likes you. Percy's been spreading news of the engagement all morning."

"Oh, shut up. Please, I can't take your sarcasm—"

"Can I be a bridesmaid?" he suddenly asked.

"Alan," I warned.

"I'm serious. Can I pick out what I'm going to wear? I think a fuchsia would make my eyes just _pop_—"

"Lucy! Alan!" We both turned to see Mr. Andrews step out from inside the ship, taking a step or two towards us. He smiled at us. He is just so happy, all the time—but, I have to admit, it's a pleasant surprise from everyone else around me who is absolutely miserable. Myself not included, of course. "Finally, a familiar face." He stopped short, crossing his arms over his chest. "Cold out here, isn't it?"

"And it only gets colder," Alan pointed out. Mr. Andrews sighed, shaking his head.

"I hate to ask this of you two, but…" His voice trailed off.

"Do you need something?" I asked, point blank. He nodded.

"I need more cigars," he answered, sounding almost baffled.

"They went through all of those cigars?" Alan questioned, skepticism etched in his voice. "There was a whole cart full of 'em!"

"They smoked them all," he said, "unbelievable."

"All of them?" I questioned skeptically. Mr. Andrew nodded, whistling lowly.

"All. Of. Them."

"Was Lloyd stealing them again?" Alan hissed into my ear. Lloyd, the smoking room steward. He's been caught stealing them before, so…probably.

"Wouldn't be surprised," I whispered back. I turned my attention back to Mr. Andrews. "I'll get them for you, sir," I offered. "We don't mind, do we, Alan?"

"Of course not." Mr. Andrews's shoulders lowered, completely and utterly relieved.

"Thank you, thank you," he said, grateful. "I'd get them, but I know you need a key to get the cigars, which of course, I don't have. You do have the key, don't you?" Alan nodded. I don't have any key! I wasn't given one! "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"No, no sir," I reassured him.

"Thank you," he repeated. Before anyone could say another word, he disappeared back into the smoking room.

"Now," I sighed, "cigars—Cigars…" I glanced at Alan. "Cigars will kill you, you know." He smiled.

"Come on, they're inside." He pulled me inside the ship and we began our search for the cigars, which are stored somewhere—somewhere I don't know. "Anyhow." He shot me a look. "What were we talking about?"

"Oliver and Maureen," I reminded.

"Right." He sighed heavily. "I don't see what the big deal is."

"About putting them together?" He nodded. "Alan, be serious!"

"Then again, I'm sure we can find someone," he mused, scratching his head.

"And not just anyone."

"Not Maureen, you mean."

"You know what I mean."

"I thought it was a good idea—It would make both of them go away and leave us in peace."

"You honestly want to see them together?" I questioned skeptically.

"Well…" His voice trailed off.

"Well…?"

"No, I don't." He sighed. "You're right—Oliver could do better."

"I think she's married, anyway."

"Like that would make a difference?"

"We're not looking for some woman as a weekend getaway for the poor man. We want someone he may want to spend time with. After the voyage." I quickly added the voyage part in.

"You want to find him a new wife?" I began to laugh.

"Alan, it was _your_ idea!" And in one sense, I feel as though I'm throwing Oliver off to the wolves. He helped me, I suppose I owe him one. Doesn't he deserve to be happy on this voyage—and in life? He's a sweet old man, he deserves someone who would love him as much as his Susan. Or whoever he might have been married to, if he was ever married at all. My mind focused on Oliver and the prospect of finding him a possible companion as Alan took a brand-new box of cigars out of their locked cabinet—chatting away about his genius plan—and he continued to babble as we made our way out onto the deck and back towards the smoking room. And at this rate, I don't know if our little plan will work. Is Oliver that dumb to not see the fact that we're trying to be rid of him?

"Either way," he told me matter-of-factly, "a little friend for him won't hurt him."

"I suppose," I said, rather wearily. "Just as long as it's not Maureen."

"I still think Maureen—"

"Alan, what would happen if she and him ended up breaking off their supposed relationship? Who would take the brunt of her emotional crisis?" I pointed to him and then to myself. "Us." His mouth turned into an O shape, a look of surprise.

"Oh. Never thought of that one." And as we stood in the doorway of the smoking room, we both glanced at each other. The royalty was in there, the royalty I hate with all of my being. "I'll go in," he offered. "The smoking room is men territory." I huffed at that.

"Sexist," I accused.

"I can go, Luce."

"I'll go," I told him. "It can't be that bad. Right?" Before he could answer, I brushed past him and opened the door into the smoking room. I have to deal with these people all the time. It's not like they're going to stare at me. I hope.

As expected, they weren't acting like animals. Sure, I could smell the brandy and the smoke in the room made it look as if the ship herself were on fire—but every man in the room was sitting quietly at either one of the many tables in the room or at a chair, except for one. Mr. Andrews was standing by the fireplace, probably waiting for me the entire time. And as I looked around, the men were playing poker and were so engrossed into their game, they didn't even notice I existed. That's pretty typical. I made my way over to the fireplace and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Mr. Andrews?" I asked lowly. I could feel all eyes suddenly on me. Great. Fantastic. He jumped so quickly, I almost fell over myself, merely out of shock. He turned immediately.

"Oh, Lucy," he breathed. "I'm sorry. Didn't expect you there." I held up the box.

"Special delivery," I told him, handing him the box. He smiled.

"My sweet Lucy, thank you. You are _truly_ an angel." I tried not to blush at the compliment, I mean, all I did was get cigars. Either way, he called me sweet!

"Didn't want the party to be ruined by not having cigars," I said, sarcastic, gesturing around us.

"We really know how to have a good time, don't we?" he asked with a grin. I smiled at him. Of course, he's kidding! It's like a wake, it's so quiet in here. I feel like someone died. I now realize I much prefer third class.

"I can feel the excitement in the air," I replied dryly. He smiled even wider than before.

"It's like a funeral in here," he confirmed, with a nod.

"Now, _I_ didn't say that—"

"They're first-class," he murmured to me rather quietly. I nodded, smiling.

"I noticed, sir."

"They don't _know _how to have a good time." I merely stared at him, unsure of what to say to that. "Oh, Lucy, you know it's true." He chuckled to himself as I gestured to the door behind me.

"Well," I began, "I suppose I better get going—"

"I'll walk you," he offered, holding out his arm for me. What am I to do with _that_?

"But—" Doesn't he have to stick around for all of the…_fun_? About to argue, I might as well enjoy him walking me. What a complete gentleman. He is an absolute gentleman! He smiled at me, waiting for me to continue an argument.

"Okay?" he asked, unsure as he took my arm and wrapped it around his.

"Okay," I managed to say. We began across the room and all of the men, who were all supposedly so concentrated on their game to even acknowledge my existence, stared at me as I got closer and closer to the door. I should've let Alan come in here. Women don't belong in here. I feel like I have five heads!

"Thank you again, Lucy," he told me, as my arm dropped to its' side. "And don't work too hard," he reminded.

"I'll try." I was about to say something more, but another man tapped Mr. Andrews on the shoulder and I didn't get the chance. I shut my mouth.

"Excuse me, Lucy," he apologized, turning to the man. I tried to get a good look at him and all I can tell is that he obviously is first-class, and in an extremely expensive suit. It has to be just as expensive if not _more_ expensive than Oliver's suits. Brown hair and a rather large handlebar mustache cover his face as he took a drag of an almost-gone cigarette. I might as well leave. I sighed.

"Thank you again, Miss," the man told me, sounding completely and utterly annoyed that I was still near him. He gestured to the door. "You can leave now." Mr. Andrews shot him somewhat of a look, but he didn't seem to notice. I, meanwhile, huffed at his words to me. I'm not a dog! I could stand here all night if I wanted to—I'm not thin air, I exist. I turned on my heel and walked out. Maureen, I know, wouldn't approve, merely because I didn't curtsey. Oh, who cares what she thinks! I don't care!

I looked about the deck and was Alan nice enough to wait for me? Of course not. He can't focus for one minute, can he? I suppose I have to go look for him now. I took a step forward and was about to walk away from the door when I heard the beginning of something I wish I hadn't.

"What was _she_ doing here?" the man who had told me to leave questioned, rather lowly. He speaks of me as if I were the plague!

"Her job," Mr. Andrews answered shortly. Silence. Well, I expected that from such scum as him, but never from Thomas Andrews. I'm never disappointed in that man. Now, to find Alan—

"All I'm saying is that she belongs in steerage, not wandering freely up here with us." The man said it simply and I had to stop myself. I had to stop myself from going in there and slicing his throat! I leaned against the wall, inching towards the door with every passing moment. Why would someone say that? I work here, with the first-class!

"She's a good kid and she's a hard worker."

"Thomas, Thomas, Thomas," the man scolded, clicking his tongue in disapproval, "social classes are segregated for a very distinct reason." He stopped, but I know he's not done just yet. "The wealthy aristocracy are simply not meant to mingle with the vulgar swine of the crew, especially that steward. It just isn't done." I'm _swine_? And as much as I tried to hold them back, my eyes began to well up with tears.

"Bruce," Mr. Andrews reprimanded, "that's very critical of just one person."

"I'm not discussing that rude girl, I'm discussing the crew _in general_. They need to know their place, and shouldn't be up here with us. We're passengers. They need to learn some manners, especially _her_."

"She's not rude," Mr. Andrews interrupted, "she's just shy."

"As if that makes a difference?" the man, obviously named Bruce, retorted. "She's not _shy_, she's rude. Plain as that."

"She's practically a child, Bruce."

"A child? A child? Thomas, really! Elizabeth is a child—She is _not_ a child, she is an adult. And a very rude one to boot." And as they spoke, I suppose I lost myself, because the next thing I knew, I had to fight tears away. How can someone speak that way of someone they don't even know? I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. I can't let that one royal ruin my entire night. Granted, maybe he's right. Maybe I am swine. Maybe that's my problem. I sniffled, still holding back my tears.

"Lucy?" I looked up from the deck to see Alan standing there. He smiled when I made eye contact with him. I don't know how well he can see—Thankfully, it's dark. I don't want him to see me cry.

"Hi." I walked away from the wall and towards him, a fake smile across my face.

"Mr. Andrews happy with the cigars?" I nodded, wiping my eyes once more.

"He was overjoyed," I answered, forcing a laugh.

"Anyhow…what were we talking about?" I shrugged. He doesn't seem to notice how upset I really am. That's a good thing. It's too dark for him to see my expression—Thank God.

"Can't remember."

"Oliver!" he exclaimed, with a snap of his fingers. "We decided Maureen and him are not such a great match after all." Her and that other jerk belong together—They practically have the same personality.

"Because after the break-up, we'd probably get fired."

"Yes, that's right." He then grinned down at me. "We were discussing that and your wedding with Oliver." I don't have the strength to argue with him. I really don't.

"Alan."

"Well, where would you want the wedding?" he suddenly asked. "Oliver's going to need a wheelchair, sure, but I could decorate it with some flowers—What colors would you like?" And as he continued to gab about a fictional wedding with myself and Oliver, all I could think about was that man's, that Bruce's, comment. It shouldn't bother me so, but it does. He called me rude and the rest of us, including me, swine. _Swine_. That's about as low as someone can go. So much for having manners and being first-class. I huffed. First-class, my eye! And is it just me, or does it seem as if Alan's voice is getting louder and louder? My head feels as if it's ready to completely explode! I can't take it any longer!

"Alan," I said wearily, warning him.

"But, we could do a wedding on a ship, this ship in fact—Hey, that's a great idea!"

"Alan, SHUT UP! Just SHUT UP!" I threw myself down onto a deck chair and began to sob. Sobbing uncontrollably seems to be a specialty of mine these days. And as I cried, Alan didn't move a muscle. He had stopped talking, he had actually _shut up_, and I could feel him staring at me. "Just stop it!"

"Lucy, I was…I was just kidding…I…" He hesitated, but walked over to me, sitting down beside me. "I…I didn't mean anything…I was just fooling around…I'm…I'm sorry…" He's blabbering now, apologizing, and that merely made me begin to cry harder. "Oh, Lucy, I…I'm sorry, _truly_…" I felt a hand on my shoulder. That made me look up from my hands as he wrapped his arms around me. I rested my head on his shoulder and I just…I just can't stop crying! I'm such a baby! "It's okay…It's okay…Shh…" he said gently into my ear, rubbing circles into my back. "You tired?" I nodded, hiding my face from the world in his wool uniform. There was silence for what felt like a lifetime—Where all he did was try to calm me down and all I could do was cry. "Lucy, Lucy." He forced a smile at me, removing me from latching onto him for eternity. "What's the matter?" I didn't respond. "Oh, come now, you can tell me." He pulled out a tissue and wiped my eyes as gently as he could. "Oh, come on! Lucy, Lucy, Lucy." He placed his hands on my shoulders. "If you can't tell me, would you at least look at me?" I looked up from the deck floor to him as he smiled at me.

"I'm just…tired," I admitted softly. He glanced down at me, with a raised eyebrow.

"That's it?" Skeptical, of course. "That I don't believe." I sighed, not responding. "What is it?" he asked gently. "Did something happen?" I had to force a nod out of myself. "Did someone speak to you inappropriately?" Well, not _technically_. "Was it an officer? Harry, even? I will knock their teeth out, I promise—" About to stand, I shook my head.

"You were right," I whimpered.

"Right? Right about what?" I didn't answer, I just began to cry again. "Lucy, Lucy…I'm not a mind reader, hon. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You should've went into that smoking room."

"Why? Did something happen in there?" I merely sighed. "Should I take that as a yes or a no?" I plucked my bonnet from my head, throwing it to my side.

"I really don't want to talk about it."

"Lucy, if something happened, if someone was inappropriate, I'll make sure to knock every single tooth out of their skull." I had to smile at his chivalry, since he was so serious. He wanted to beat the living shit out of some man for hurting me.

"It's stupid, really…"

"It's not stupid; you're crying over it." He tucked his hand under my chin. "You're not one to cry over spilt milk." No, I don't cry over spilt milk—I cry over broken china.

"Well…" I shook my head. "Oh, it doesn't matter."

"Lucy, I'll drag it out of you, do you realize that? I will sit here all night—I will get a set of handcuffs from the Master at Arms office and chain myself to you until I get an answer out of you—" He couldn't even take it. He began to chuckle himself.

"While I find that extremely nice, it was stupid." He eyed me, not happy with that answer. And I couldn't help it, my eyes blurred with more tears. "Some first-class man called me rude and that I was swine," I blurted, taking the tissue in his hand to wipe my eyes. "That there's a reason for class segregation—That I shouldn't be allowed to wander freely up here with them…"

"Oh, Lucy…"

"Why would someone be that cruel and say that?"

"He said that to your face?" I shook my head. "Oh, you _eavesdropped_."

"Alan, after I left the room, he asked Mr. Andrews what I was doing there, like I was some contagious plague!"

"You're _not_ the plague," he reassured me.

"And he called me swine, us swine, the entire crew swine!"

"What did this guy look like?" he inquired. I hesitated, trying to picture him as I had met him minutes ago.

"Well, he had brown hair, brown handlebar mustache, smoker, drinker—" I bit my lower lip, trying to remember as much as I possibly could. "He was talking to Mr. Andrews like they were best friends!"

"Ah, Bruce Ismay, I'd suspect."

"Bruce Ismay?" I hesitated. "You mean, the official?" He nodded. "Well, I suppose that makes sense—Mr. Andrews called him Bruce." And with that, I just began to cry harder. I can't believe a White Star Line official would say that!

"Oh, Lucy, you can't listen to a word any of them say," he told me, pulling me in for a hug, holding me tighter than before. "They're just a bunch of people with too much money and too much time on their hands."

"Swine, Alan, swine!" I repeated, rather crazily.

"Lucy, look at me." He let go of the embrace and bent down to my eye level, keeping his eyes focused on mine. "Do you honestly think you're swine?" My eyes darted away from him. "And I want you to look at me when you answer." I kept my focus on his green eyes. I never quite realized how green they were until now.

"Yes." I honestly think, right now, I'm about as low as a farm animal.

"Honestly, I want an honest answer out of you." I shook my head.

"No."

"No, _what_?" he probed.

"No, I am not swine."

"There, that's what I wanted to hear. Oh, Lucy." He smiled, pulling me into another hug as I tried my best not to cry again. I don't know why that effected me so much, but it did. I suppose I can't take name calling this late at night! "It's okay," he reassured me, kissing me on the head a few times. And as I remained silent, I had to close my eyes. I can't even keep them open anymore—the last thing I want to do is cry again. "You know what you need?" I looked up at him, shrugging a shoulder.

"A cold hard slap of reality?" I sniffled. He smiled.

"Besides that."

"Okay, besides that," I agreed, "what do I need?" And for one moment, I saw his eyes twinkle.

"Cheap beer and nicotine."


	18. Get Me Outta Here

"Was I right or was I right?" Alan shouted to me above the music. "Did you or did you _not_ need cheap beer and nicotine?" I smiled at him, leaning back into my chair.

"You were right!" My tears seemed to have evaporated completely as soon as I heard the Irish music of third class. People, of course, are dancing around like mad, some are playing cards—and everyone's drinking. It's not that much different than last night, but at the same time, it _is_ different. I'm here because I want to be, not because I owe a coworker a favor for taking the blame…Of course, when Alan had said the mere words nicotine and beer, I knew he meant we should definitely go down and have a grand old time in the third-class—and for some reason, the mental image of Amelia plagued me for that one moment. The last thing I wanted when he had first suggested us going below deck was to have another shouting contest. I contemplated making him promise to not shout at me should the name Amelia be uttered—but then realized, it was frivolous. I need to make Harry promise me that, not Alan! He brought her up to begin with. And besides, as Alan said jokingly, "Your boyfriend's on duty tonight, does that matter?" Of course it didn't matter! I'm not in love with Harold Lowe, for God's sake. But, that was somewhat of a breath of relief for me. I guess I won't have to worry about any slips about Amelia…at least not tonight.

And as Alan held playing cards in his hand, trying to play poker at our table with little success, merely because no one at this table, besides me, can speak English, I kept my eyes open for Harry at all times. I hope he was right—I hope Harry doesn't show up. I really am still sore from last night, from all of that dancing, I can't afford to dance again! Sighing, I took a sip of the cheap beer in my cup and unnoticed to Alan, looked at his cards. He's got nothing...I think. I smiled at the men across from us at the table, as sweetly as I could before shaking my head at Alan.

"You have shit, don't you?" I hissed into his ear. He blushed, all the way up to his ears, before hiding his face with the cards.

"Lucy," he sighed, agitated, "as I have explained, cards is a game that requires skill, the skill of numbers, the skill of gambling…"

"And the skill of lying," I interrupted. He rolled his eyes at me, still hiding his face and now mine in the cards, from his card players.

"Okay, yes, that's a skill you need to play," he admitted lowly.

"Will you teach me?" I suddenly asked. "How to play?"

"When?"

"Right now."

"Not right now, okay?" I groaned, resting my head in my palm, fluttering my eyes at him. Maybe if I look pretty enough, he'll teach me or do something rather than me just sit here and bore myself to death. "Lucy, please don't guilt trip me now," he begged.

"What other skills do you need?" He glanced from the cards back to me.

"What?"

"What other skills do you need for poker?"

"Well…communication skills…" He looked at the men across from us. "…like being able to speak English is a good start…"

"Don't you want to dance?" I suddenly asked, taking another sip of my drink. I suppose all of my soreness is not that big of a problem now. I didn't expect Alan to be playing cards right now, I thought he wanted to smoke and drink like the other normal folk on this ship!

"Not right now, I don't." He paused, lowering the cards from our faces before taking a card and tossing it onto the table. "I thought you didn't want to dance, that's what you said. You were sore, yadda, yadda, yadda—"

"Just because I said that doesn't mean I actually meant it."

"Well, from now on, maybe you should say what you mean." I sighed heavily.

"You're no fun," I huffed.

"Excuse me?" he asked, insulted. I smiled to myself. That comment certainly got his attention and pretty fast, too, if I do say so myself. "Did you just accuse me of not being any fun?"

"I'm not accusing you," I corrected, "you really are _no_ fun."

"Oh, you think so?" he asked, a smirk across his face. "Well, then!" He slammed the cards down on the table and lifted me up out of my seat, placing one hand on my waist and another in mine.

"Alan, what the Hell—"

"Aren't you going to finish the game?" asked a voice behind me. Alan shrugged.

"Don't feel like it now!" he laughed, and after he took a quick drag from one of his card mate's cigarettes, we were practically jumping around the room in a fun dance!

"Alan, Alan, slow down!" I shouted, hiding my giggles in his shoulder.

"You said I wasn't any fun!" Okay, I did say that…

"That's true!"

"I'm going to prove you wrong, Lucy Sullivan! Very wrong!"

"Oh, are you!?" He merely nodded. I can't help but laugh and we're both laughing so hard, I can barely see straight. Tears are welling up in my eyes from the laughing and at this point, if we speak we're shouting because of the loud music! Now, this is what I came down here to do, this is why I shed my usual apron and stupid-looking bonnet—to dance and drink too much, to have one too many cigarettes, to be free of Maureen Kexington's wrath…and who else would appreciate this, rather than a coworker? No one, that's who! And as we danced, one song after another, I can feel my feet losing their strength, but I kept going—I didn't agitate Alan during his card game so he would stop dancing on account of me. And I must've not seen it before, but now I have. It's plainly visible, how could I have missed this? There's a man, an officer in fact, on the staircase going up to the next level of the ship, leaning against the railing, watching the madness ensue below him, with a rather large smile on his face. I know it's not Harry, but…Oh, it's the officer! From that night! Oh, God, as if I'm not in enough trouble for being down here, here comes an officer as we speak—probably looking for me! I bet he's only down here because of Maureen. Maureen. Dear God.

"What is it?" Alan asked, confused. He must've noticed me trailing off, keeping my eyes on the stairs.

"It's him," I murmured.

"Who?"

"That officer."

"What officer?"

"The guy with the last name of _dock_, he's on the stairs." Alan grinned, suddenly looking around for him.

"Well, well, well, they're all after you, aren't they?" I eyed him angrily.

"Alan, shut up and be serious. What could he be doing here?"

"No idea." Except for the fact that I can now see my last paycheck hanging in the balance…

"And frankly," I decided aloud, "I really don't want to stay around here to find out. Come on." I took his hand from my waist and pulled him to a corner of the room, where an empty table stood. Pushing through the crowd is more of a feat than anything else and suddenly, I found myself back at the poker table, not at the empty table I had eyed merely moments before. The crowd pushed me off-course! I pushed Alan down into a chair and then sat down myself, trying to hide behind him.

"You thirsty?" he asked, as if there was nothing wrong. I nodded, trying to see that bloody officer through the crowd. I can't! He grabbed two glasses of beer from the center of the table and handed one it to me. He took a quick sip of his while I began to chug mine, not realizing it, but attempting to quench my thirst at the same time.

"Lucy, Lucy," he laughed, taking the cup from my lips, "you'll drink yourself to death!" I managed to catch my breath. Oh, there he is. I can see that officer now, in the crowd, his head bobbing up and down through the people, as if he was looking for someone. Maybe he's looking for Harry? He can't possibly be looking for me. He doesn't even remember me, I'm sure! How could he? I'm the face of hundreds of women aboard this ship.

"Can you remember his name?" I asked Alan. He quickly looked over his shoulder at me and then back to the crowd.

"Something dock." Oh, like that's going to help me right now! "You should know one of your beau's names, you know, it's really rude that you don't." He looked about the crowd as he was dealt another set of cards. "Oh, God," he murmured into my ear, "he's coming this way."

"Is he?" I asked, panic-stricken. I didn't want for him to respond. I stood and began to make for the exit, but Alan grabbed my wrist and pulled me back down into my seat.

"Lucy, he's not here for you, I'm sure." I can't be so sure. Alan, at least, is safe from Maureen. I'm new blood and she just wants me out of her hair, I'm sure of it. I've been sure of it ever since I got this damn job.

"Get me out of here," I begged.

"No way," he replied, "No way am I going back up there to get abused by a first-class. Not now." He gestured to the cards in his hand. "And besides, I have to finish what I started." I sighed, annoyed. "Lucy, he won't even notice you here, I'm sure."

"Well…well…" I have no idea what to say to that. "Can you at least hide me?" He looked from the cards in his hand to me, smiling, before placing his crooked steward's hat on my head.

"How's that?" he asked, grinning. I didn't answer. I hid myself from the world with the hat, sinking deeper and deeper into my chair. I really don't want him to see me. "Lucy, please, _calm_ yourself."

"If he sees us—" 

"He'll make a pass at you, sure, but that's nothing to be afraid of." I gasped at the sudden frightening thought that popped into my head. I had thought of Maureen asking him to look for me, but what if he should tell her…

"What if he should tell Maureen?" Alan looked from the cards to me, fear in his eyes. "What if he tells her we were here, _not_ working?" I hope I emphasized on the not working aspect enough.

"I, uh, I didn't think of that." He then laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "Oh, he doesn't know her, I'm sure!" I eyed him wearily, before taking another swig of the beer in front of me. "Hey, getting drunk isn't going to help!" I can see him now, even more clearly than before, and he seems to be making his way right to our table!

"Anyone seen Officer Moody?" he shouted to some people in the crowd. No one stopped to respond, they merely continued to dance around him as if they hadn't even heard him. They probably didn't. "Officer Moody?" he asked another man. He merely pointed to our table, right at Alan! Oh my God. I slouched into my chair more so than before as the officer made his way towards us.

"Well, I suppose your, Oh Lucy, he won't see you theory is now thrown out the window," I mumbled into Alan's ear.

"I can't be right all the time," he replied. And that's when the officer finally stood before us, looking completely agitated.

"Jim, what the Hell are you doing down here?" Alan looked up at him and he looks utterly confused.

"Jim, Jim who?" Alan shouted above the noise.

"Oh, you're not Jim!" He laughed. "I'm sorry; I'm looking for a fellow officer. Seen any White Star Line officers around these parts?" Alan looked at me, then back to him.

"Not many," he admitted.

"Any at all?"

"Well, there is…_one_." Alan smiled at him and before I knew it, his hat was gone from my head and I found myself face-to-face with my savior. The savior, whose name I can't remember if my life depended on it.

"ALAN!" I shrieked. "I'm going to rip your heart out, I swear to—"

"Lucy?" I stopped short at the sound of his confused voice. I stopped short of wrapping my hands around Alan's neck and choking him. Taking in a deep breath, attempting to calm myself, I sat up straighter in my chair. I managed to bob my head up and down once as a simple response. "Well, I never expected to see you down here!" I forced a laugh.

"Neither did I!" I took another sip of my drink. This is going to be one _long_ night, I can feel it in my bones. Glancing up at him, I see his lips moving, and he's looking straight at me, but for the life of me, I can't hear what he's saying! The music seems to just be getting louder and louder. I tugged on Alan's arm, but he seems distracted, as if he's listening to whatever his fellow White Star Line employee had to say.

"She can't hear you, my friend!" Alan, that was Alan for sure. Before I knew it, he had stood up, dragged the officer towards me and sat back down to resume his card game, as if all was normal in this world. My savior took another step towards me and began to speak, but it sounds as if he's mumbling.

"I can't hear you!" I shouted. Alan grinned widely at me, as if he knew something I didn't. The officer bent down to my level, I suppose so I could hear better. I should've just stood up.

"Would you like to dance?" That I heard, crystal clear. When someone stops mumbling, I can hear just fine, thank you. I laughed.

"I can't dance," I said with a shake of my head, as I took another sip of the beer in my hand. He stared at me, as if this answer wasn't good enough. "I really can't!"

"Oh, we have to have _some_ fun before we dock!" He chuckled. "Come on." He took my free hand and pulled me up from my chair, as Alan and the rest of the men sitting at our table watched, snickering to one another as they smoked their cigarettes. "Put down that drink," he instructed, taking the cup from my hand. I growled.

"Hey, I was enjoying that!" He merely smiled before placing the cup in front of an already buzzed steward, my buddy Alan, who now has two cups in his possession. "You shouldn't be giving him more," I sighed, sitting back down.

"Well, you know you shouldn't drink on the job, don't you?" the officer questioned, smiling down at me. Goodness, I'm sick of referring to him as the officer! I wish I could remember his name!

"We need a way to release our anxiety," I explained.

"And our anger," Alan added in. "Don't forget the anger." I had to laugh at that. And as I sort of forgot what I was even doing, as a result of the loud noise and the chattering around me, that officer was kneeling beside me again. Oh, please, leave me be! I hid my impending groan and focused my eyes back on his.

"I'm sorry, what we were you saying?" I asked. He smiled, looking away and then back to me.

"Would you like to dance?" he repeated.

"I really _can't_ dance," I admitted. He shrugged a shoulder. "Really, I can't dance and I don't _want_ to dance—" At least not with him.

"One dance won't hurt, will it?"

"Well, my feet _do_ hurt…" I couldn't finish what I had to say because he lifted me up out my chair…yet again. "Listen…" How many lies do I have to conjure up to let him leave me be? "I'm seeing someone." He didn't falter.

"Either way, one dance couldn't hurt—"

"I'm engaged." Did I just say _that_? I tried not to hide my own surprise. Engaged!? Me!? Me engaged? That is such a tall tale!

"To be married?" I nodded. "Okay, then." He paused. "Well, I didn't expect _that_."

"Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?" 

"I. Don't. Really know." It sounds as if he's piecing his words together, trying to digest this hideous lie. And as he contemplated this horrible lie, that he must by now have figured out isn't true, Alan began to laugh, laugh hysterically in fact, and actually began to snort every second or so.

"In what universe?" We both turned to my buzzed friend. He's sitting backwards in his chair, looking like a complete lunatic…and just when I thought he couldn't get any worse, he began to laugh again. "In what universe are you seeing someone and for God's sake, _engaged_!?" I blushed red, as the officer without a name looked from me to him.

"She's not seeing someone?" Alan shook his head.

"Not in the least." He glanced at me.

"Well, aren't you a strange one?" he chuckled. I shot Alan a look. I'm going to kill him! I just have to wait for the right moment, and when no one's looking.

"Lucy, for God's sake, don't break the man's dreams!" Alan scolded. "Just dance with him! Poor Officer…" His voice trailed off as he gestured to my savior.

"Will," he responded.

"Poor Officer _Will_ doesn't want to stand around and get rejected all night by _you_." I sighed at him, placing my hands on my hips. "You either dance with him or you don't, it's as simple as that." But, what am I to do? Should I dance or run for my life? I don't know how far I'd get with the running, so I suppose dancing is my only other option. Will, that's his name, I can completely remember that...I do owe him this. And if this one little favor makes him happy, makes him glad that he helped me that night, well, that's all that really matters, right? I owe him this one token of my appreciation.

"You really want to dance?" I asked skeptically, rubbing my forehead. He nodded. "Alright, let's do it." Here it goes again!

"Really?"

"While the night is young!" I took the cigarette Alan had just acquired and took a quick drag of it before he snatched it back. I need energy, that's decided. Taking a deep breath, I took Will's hands, placing one on my waist and held onto the other. "Come on!" I might as well make this as fun as possible. He won't leave me alone until I do this.

"Lucy, Lucy, wait one second—" I didn't give him a chance to even respond. I pushed him and then myself into the crowd of dancing third-class.

"You wanted to dance so we're going to dance!" I yelled to him above the music.

"Are there steps?" I shrugged a shoulder.

"If there are, I don't know them!" With that, with the mere idea that there was no required code or anything of the sort, he loosened up immensely. And as we began to dance, I found myself really, honestly laughing—and as we went around the room, again and again, my feet began to follow his steps as if they had done so all of their life. Will is a much better dancer than Harry. Actually, I think anyone is better than Harold Lowe—But, what a way to start the night! What a way to start the night off _right_.


	19. The Wake Up Call

"Lucy?" I didn't respond. I just want to sleep, is that so much to even ask for? My whole body feels as if it has been running a marathon and I need time to recuperate from my little diversion below deck. "Lucy." I sighed angrily as a hand began to shake my shoulder. I brushed the hand away. "Lucy." Wait one second—How is there another person in the room, in _my_ room, no less? I shot straight up, petrified and was about to scream when I saw who was kneeling at my bedside. Alan.

"Alan?" I asked, confused. "How did you—"

"Broke the lock," he replied nonchalantly, tipping his hat to me. "Morning."

"What the Hell is wrong with you?" I screeched. "Didn't you ever hear of knocking!? Jesus!"

"Lucy," he responded calmly, clicking his tongue in disapproval, "you're going to wake up the entire ship, you know."

"I don't give a shit about the entire ship, what do you think you're doing in here, in _my_ cabin!?"

"Well, I—"

"Alan, get out." I laid back down onto my pillow, forcing my eyes shut. Is the room spinning or is it just me?

"No, Lucy, really, I did break in for a reason."

"Well, I certainly hope so." I groaned, opening one eye and then the other to see him _still_ here. "For God's sake," I sighed, annoyed, "what the Hell are you _still _doing here?" How many times must I repeat myself to get an answer out of anyone?

"Trying to be helpful."

"Helpful?" I hesitated. "Do I look like I need help?"

"You're going to." He hesitated. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…Maureen's, umm…well, to put it bluntly, she's been asking for you." I let out a tiny whine of agitation.

"Well, that's never good. What did I do now?" I shook my head at him. "I mean, it's still early yet, I'm not late, she can't complain about—"

"No, no, you see, you're more than just late," he interrupted nervously, reaching for the clock on my bedside table. "It is now eleven-fifty," he announced in a monotone.

"Wh—what!?" I ripped the clock out of his grasp to only read what he had said. Eleven. It's eleven-fifty, practically noon and I had been sleeping all of this time! I haven't been working! "I haven't been working all of this time!?" I exclaimed, bewildered.

"And she knows," he added in. I screamed, out of frustration and for my utter bad luck. I threw myself down onto my bed, hiding my head in my pillow. What am I to do!? What am I going to do besides suffocate myself!?

"What am I to?" I asked, my voice half-muffled from my pillow.

"Well," he mused, "laying in bed isn't going to help your case, Lucy. Come now, gather yourself up, get yourself dressed—" Oh, I know it's never good when he's right.

"Alan, Alan." I sat back up, gripping him by the collar before pulling him towards me. "Tell me what I should do!"

"Lucy," he cried, "I…I have no idea!"

"How can you not have an idea!? You're the one always in trouble!" Please, someone help me! He's beginning to panic, even more so than me, and I'm the one whose job is on the line. "Oh, you're no help!" I realized. I let go of his collar and hopped out of bed, running for my suitcase. I flung it open and pulled out the same replica uniform I've come to hate. I have the joy of having more than one. I quickly looked down at my dress, only to see and suddenly remember that I was so exhausted last night that I had decided to merely sleep in my uniform. I never changed. "Shit," I muttered. I reached for the back buttons of my dress and began to quickly undo them, in a complete and utter panic, my heart about to explode from the stress. I suddenly heard someone clearing their throat and I turned. Alan is still here, still standing there, about to see me…but better than not, about to see what lies beneath the dress.

"Oh!" I grabbed his arm, holding the back of my uniform together with my free hand and swung the door open, pushing him out into the hallway. "You are not at privilege to see _that_!"

"Don't I at least get—" I slammed the door. "A thank-you?" He asked this of me through the door as I quickly disrobed and put on my clean uniform. I grabbed my hairbrush and quickly fixed my hair, back into its' proper bun, and placed my stupid bonnet on top of my head, securing it with hairpins. I tied my apron, fixing the White Star Line buttons so they appeared to be as straight as possible before straightening out the apron itself. I took one final look in the mirror before I opened up my door, key in hand, to find Alan leaning against the opposing wall, his eyes glued to his watch.

"Thank you," I told him, locking my door.

"You're welcome," he mumbled, not looking up from his watch. "But, Lucy…Six minutes!" He whistled. He stopped, taking a second glance at his watch, as if in amazement. "Six minutes!"

"Please tell me you were kidding about Maureen," I begged. He paused, but shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but no." I nodded. I can't say I didn't imagine that he _was_ lying, why would he?

"Did she, uh…" Did she want me to meet her anywhere? Or would she just like to scold me in public, in front of the already pompous first-class? That's what I meant to ask, really, but the words never quite got out. But, as usual, Alan always seems to understand. He always seems to know what I mean to say when I'm too much in shock to even speak.

"No."

"Well, I should…" I should probably go look for her.

"I think so." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Lucy, I didn't know quite how to put it…" I glanced up at him as he struggled to form the words. He's a nervous wreck. "About Maureen and all." As it is, I'm ready to cry. If I should lose my position with the White Star Line, I have no idea of what I should do next. Look for another opportunity, look for another company that might give me a chance? This could be a blemish on my employment record, for all I know!

"What could you say?" I murmured.

"I don't…_know_."

"I have to go find her," I sighed, brushing his hand from my shoulder. "Thank you for warning me, Alan." I forced myself to walk past him, when in reality—all I want to do is lock myself in my cabin. I can't face her alone, I'd rather drown. But, I began down the hall, anyway, against my better judgement…that is, until I was stopped by someone quickly snatching my wrist. Alan, no doubt. "What?" I wondered tiredly, turning to him.

"Want me to go with you?" he offered. I looked down to the floor, ashamed of being and feeling so helpless. As it is, I'm ready to vomit just at the thought of having to deal with Maureen. I may burst into tears. God forbid she stares at me the way she usually does, let alone scold me.

"Do I look that desperate?"

"Absolutely."

"Alan, I, um…" I have no idea of what to say. How may times can I thank him in one hour? I suppose he can be a good person when he wants to be. But only _when_.

"You're welcome." He held out his arm to me. "Shall we?" I didn't move a muscle and he took a step towards me, nudging me a bit in the ribs. "Lucy," he said in quite a sweet tone, "I'm not going to let you drown by the likes of Maureen Kexington. "Come on." I took his offered arm, holding onto it as tightly as I could without pulling his arm out of the socket. "I'm not going to let you face her by yourself."

"Well," I commented as we began to go down the corridor, myself trying to go as slowly as possible, "you're quite the gentleman this morning."

"I'm a _saint_ this morning," he felt the need to correct. And even though I tried to walk as slowly as I could, in the blink of an eye I found myself closer and closer to the doors that led to Titanic's deck. I tried to not tense up, but I can't help it. I kept my eyes peeled for any signs of my charming employer, but she's nowhere to be found. Alan pushed the doors open to the outside, practically dragging me onto the deck and yet again, she's not here. Maybe she's forgotten. Maybe she's forgotten all about me! Maybe! I gripped Alan's arm tighter and he forced a chuckle.

"Lucy, my arm isn't going to be of any use after you're through with it!"

"I'm sorry," I apologized quickly. I let go of his arm, much to my distaste and stood there, beside Alan, practically cowering behind him like a child. And am I embarrassed? No, not in the least. I'm damn terrified of Maureen Kexington, truth be told. A sudden tug on my wrist made me look up at Alan, but I was suddenly jerked to my left. Alan's on my right. Following the beefy hand gripping my wrist, up the arm and to the face, it's Maureen. I should've known! She can _smell_ my fear.

"There you are," she muttered. Fantastic, she doesn't sound all that happy with me right now. Then again, I didn't expect her to be. "Come now, I have to speak with you."

"But, Ms. Kexington," Alan began reasonably, "don't you think that this can all be sorted out—" She shot him a look of death, a literal look of death.

"I'll deal with you next," she snapped. "Come, Lucille." With that, she began to drag me down the deck, literally, she began to _literally_ drag me down the deck, still gripping my wrist, Alan trailing at my heels. I tried to release myself from her grasp and out of sheer panic, I began to sputter out excuses.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I—" 

"Lucille, do not explain anything to me."

"But, Ms. Kexington…"

"Lucille." She said my name more as a warning than anything else. I immediately stopped. It's no use. I glanced momentarily over my shoulder at Alan, who looks just as terrified as I feel, and then decided the best thing I could do was keep up with her and not make a sound. I kept my head down as we continued down the deck in silence, and tried to calm my almost-exploding heart. I may have a heart attack right here!

"Lucy, how are you?" I looked up momentarily to see Will standing a few feet off, surrounded by other officers. I kept my mouth shut and turned away. How do I look? This is just not the time or the place. "Lucy…?" He said my name as nothing more than a concerned noun and not a question. I shot Alan a look over my shoulder, as if he could make Will stop talking and see my head is practically on the chopping block. Alan, however, only shrugging his shoulders at Will.

But, Will… as I walked past him, his voice echoed in my head…first at the rate he had spoken to me in and then slower and slower, until he was practically saying every single letter in my name. Everything around me seems to have stopped and as I continued to be pulled by my employer…it seems as if all eyes are on me. I know that can't be the case, it has to be my mind slowly slipping away, my sanity is practically overboard this damn ship, anyway! Maureen continued to drag me, until a sharp left into the ship's interior practically knocked me over. She flung open a door, pushed me in before her, took a step in herself and slammed the door on Alan before he could even come to my defense. Shit. I need him to help me! My eyes began to adjust from the harsh glare of the outdoors to the inside and I find myself in Titanic's deserted gymnasium. I glanced down at my watch. Past noon now.

I know from all of the other crew's ramblings the gym's schedule. According to Alan, I should know them. I didn't have it memorized when we first boarded, but I do now! And the voyage is practically over, so it won't help me in the least. I want to say there's an idle hour, when passengers aren't allowed to use the equipment, and lucky for Maureen and not myself, we have hit that hour. There's not a soul in sight. Anyhow…The gymnasium. I glanced around me, trying to keep my eyes off of Maureen for as long as possible and trying not to allow my fear to control my body. We've got…a rowing machine, cycles, an electric camel, I think…an electric horse…

"Lucille." She dropped my aching wrist for the second time this morning and I instinctively began to cradle it. Now, it'll be swollen. She's got quite the grip, don't you know. I stared at the door, which just had to be frosted, to see Alan's silhouette outside, half leaning against the door, half leaning against the doorway. I suppose he's here until I leave. "Do you want to lose your job?" she asked, as if mocking. I turned my attention back to Maureen, shaking my head feverishly. God, no. I don't want to lose my job! I _can't_ lose my job. I need the money.

"No, ma'am."

"Well, you certainly aren't acting like it." She tapped her fingers against her hip. "I don't like what I've been hearing about you, Lucille."

"What have you been hearing, Ms. Kexington?"

"You know very well what I've been hearing." She shook her head disapprovingly, rubbing her forehead. "Lucille, if I could only write a novel about what I've heard! First, you're prancing about with the first-class passengers, talking to them as if you were of the same class. Well." She huffed. "It's not appropriate." She eyed me. "And you know it." I nodded. "You know better, Lucille, I've taught you better. Your mother has taught you better."

"I do apologize, Ms. Kexington." I don't mean a word of it.

"Oh, this is just the beginning. Being seen with other members of the crew, members that are not of the same level as you, makes the entire company look awful, as if we have no social grace or respect whatsoever. Lucille, the rulebook explains it all!" I tucked my hands behind my back, beginning to toy with my fingers. I kept my eyes on the floor. If I'm going to lose my job, can't she just tell me that and let me go? No, she's got to humiliate me beforehand. "And skipping your nightly duties to go dancing below deck is completely _and_ utterly unacceptable!" How did she even know about that? Alan wouldn't have told, would he have? No, because then he would've had to explain how he knew about my whereabouts…and he'd, in turn, get punished. "I can understand your behavior, Lucille, really I can," she said, trying to be understanding, but with little success, "but with you nowhere to be found, women have been going without sleep as a result of your disappearing acts! They need help with their undressing, you know that!" Don't they have other stewardesses to do that for them? I can only undo so many corsets before I'm ready to take the laces and choke myself with them. "And dancing with officers, for God's sake!? Lucille, you might as well put the pistol to my skull!" How I would like, even _love_, to do that…

"I'm sorry, ma'am." She didn't flinch at my pathetic apology. She's not done just yet.

"What I mean is, stop gallivanting with those officers," she ordered sternly. "They're a bunch of seamen and they will drag you right down with them, just as they have the girl before you. Do you understand me?" I stifled a nod, even though I really have no idea of what she's talking about. All I did was dance with them and to remember the event accurately, I only danced with two officers, not the entire ship stock! How much harm could dancing do? "And Officer Murdoch is not someone you should be involved with, let alone associated with. Stop the infatuation before it goes too far and becomes out of hand." I almost laughed out loud, but quickly contained myself. That's Will's last name, first off. Murdoch! But…an _infatuation_? Did I just hallucinate or did those words come out of her mouth? I nodded knowingly, even though I have no idea where she heard of this supposed love affair between Will and myself.

"Yes, Ms. Kexington."

"And while Alan and you go about your merry way, dancing and drinking yourselves into oblivion below deck, passengers are not getting their needs met—" No, no, we're not bringing Alan into this. I can't. I can't do that to him. Even as much as he annoys me, he doesn't deserve to lose his job!

"That's not true!" I argued, locking my eyes with her's. She stared me down, as if insulted I challenged her. "That's not true, _ma'am_," I quickly corrected. I gestured to the door that led back out to the deck, Alan's outline still as apparent as ever. "Alan has nothing to do with my behavior."

"Well, according to my source—"

"Well, your source is wrong!" I blurted. She eyed me so angrily, it was as if she wanted me to light on fire.

"Are you calling Maureen Kexington a liar?"

"No, I'm calling your source a liar." She took a step towards me and I immediately took a step back, as if this whole conversation was some sort of a challenge. I don't like challenges.

"Alan wasn't involved?" she questioned skeptically. I shook my head.

"I went to third class myself, ma'am, by _myself_. He wasn't there. Ever." She seemed to drop Alan out of her head and out of the discussion at that absolute moment. Good. He's going to be paying _me_ with his checks once I get discharged, he needs the job.

"You are a stewardess, Lucille," she reminded between clenched teeth, "you are _not_ a passenger." She doesn't have to remind me of that fact. "You have a job to do and nothing should get in the way of it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I didn't bring any of the staff, especially _you_, aboard to have you frolicking about with not a care in the world. I'm not paying you to frolic, I'm paying you to work. If you wanted to frolic, you could've bought yourself a ticket." She sighed, annoyed at the mere sight of me. "You're…you're excused, Lucille." Well, that's it. I lost my job. And I can just see the disappointed look on my mother's face when I get the pleasure of telling her I lost my employment to some fun below deck…And Jonathan. What was I doing? I know we need the money, how could I have been so careless, so stupid? Oh. I suppose it's back to looking through the newspapers for another employment opportunity. Shaking my head, I untied my apron and took the bonnet off of my head, handing both articles of linen to her. I can't say it's been fun—It's been a complete nightmare.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Kexington," I managed to mumble. She stared at me, eyes wide, looking from the bundle in her hands to me, to the bundle, back to me, to the bundle and then finally kept her eyes on me.

"Lucille, just _what _are you doing?" She just let me go. What's there to explain? I remained silent as she began to tap her toe impatiently, waiting for an answer.

"Well, ma'am, I'm excused," I explained slowly. "You _excused_ me." I think focusing on the excused part may help her with her sudden memory loss.

"Not from your position, from me. You're excused from _me_." She shoved the articles of my uniform back into my hand. "Put your uniform back on and get back to work. And make sure this time, your hat is on _straight_. We do have an image to uphold." She shook her head disapprovingly at me as I tied my apron around my waist. She pushed her way past me towards the door and I watched, placing the bonnet on top of my head. She turned the doorknob, about to open it, but suddenly turned back to me. "Remember your position aboard this liner, Lucille," she instructed, as if to remind me once more that my employment is slipping through my fingers. She pointed to me, shaking an index finger in disapproval. "Remember."

"Yes, Ms. Kexington," I replied, curtseying. She nodded, proud of the job she had done with practically killing me, and walked through the gymnasium's door, stopping at the figure that has been standing there the entire time. Alan.

"And you're off the hook, Mallard," she told Alan gruffly, "at least, for the time being." It sounded as if she shoved past him, for Alan let out a slight whimper and I heard her stomp down the deck, away from us. I sighed a breath of relief. I didn't lose my job! Even though I was late, half-asleep, I'm still half-asleep, truth be told, I didn't lose my job! I'll still receive a paycheck after we dock and Jonathan is somehow out of the line of fire for the time being—At least until I lose this position for good. I'm in pure disbelief. If that didn't get me unemployed, by God, nothing will! Perhaps she took her medication today, to control her rage, but an hour from now, who knows where her mind may be. Alan peeked into the room, hanging onto the doorway for support, waiting for me to say something. I can't say a word. I'm just in amazement. I went towards him, still in disbelief as I shut the gymnasium's door behind me. I shook my head at him, rubbing my forehead in shock.

"Oh my God, Lucy," he murmured, taking his hat from his head and tucking it under his arm. "I am _so_ sorry. I never meant for this to happen, I lost my head, forcing you down below decks with me and I never really meant to cause this much trouble—I swear, I'll get a second job, I'll…and you know what? I'll give you my paychecks until you find another job! How's that?"

"I didn't lose my job," I managed to say, shaking my head in shock.

"Wh—what?" he asked, disbelieving.

"I didn't lose my—" Alan interrupted me, letting out a whooping cheer of victory, as if we had won this battle. He suddenly hugged me, so tightly in fact, that he lifted me up into the air, spinning me around, still cheering of our large achievement. He's giddy, he is absolutely giddy! I hugged him back, laughing in spite of myself and of the situation I just managed to live through. And the most surprising thing is that I'm actually _happy_ I'm still employed with the White Star Line. Who would've thought! At least, for now, anyway, my mother will have something to pay Jonathan's medical bills with and that's all that matters to me.


	20. Library Duty

Well, this morning hasn't been my best, considering the fact that I was an inch away from becoming unemployed and I'm more than not, utterly exhausted. Mustering the strength to go through the motions and dealing with the first class has become just a little too difficult for me. Alan, at one point this morning, as I almost lunged for a first-class woman's skinny throat, point-blank told me to go back to bed, that he would cover for me. And I told him no, being my stubborn self. I should've—he owes me that much and I'm dead-tired. But, I can't. I'm already in deep water with Maureen. Why anger her more than necessary? Granted, I really could use the rest, I'm ready to fall over, but I can't afford to come that close again to losing my paychecks. It just can't happen. At least, not on this voyage.

It turned out to be quite a beautiful day. The sun was shining even as I was getting reprimanded by Maureen and although the sun was out and there were no clouds in the sky, a bitter wind had sent most passengers into the ship's interior. Only lucky stewards like myself and some other chosen crew, along with some younger passengers with nothing better to do, dared to walk up and down the windy deck. Like myself, all of the crew were getting the passengers what they usually requested: food, drinks and blankets. Even if they were inside, it didn't mean they weren't going to be demanding.

Most first-class was out and about aboard the ship, few stayed in their cabins. Groups formed in Titanic's library, smoking room, the Café, both the Verandah and the Parisian, while some decided to spend money on idiotic trinkets in the gift shop. I wish I had money to just spend carelessly like that! I found myself taking care of every person who decided to place themselves in the first-class reading and writing room. And even though we were indoors, I could almost swear I was outside—The sun was so bright and the windows were too large for comfort. Reading, writing, quiet card playing and even chatter, usually forbidden in libraries, continued on between both men and women as I served afternoon tea to the library guests, each asking for one more item that could've sent me over the edge. Thankfully, it didn't. But, eavesdropping, I could hear talk of how wonderful Titanic's maiden voyage was going and that the ship could make it to New York if all went well. As much as that would be wonderful news, I just sort of managed to find my way around the large ship! I was getting used to Titanic and even the thought of being at sea. As long as I stay away from the actual rail and keep my mind preoccupied with thoughts other than the water floating us along, I should be fine.

It wasn't until I had cleared the afternoon tea and snack trays, with the help of another stewardess that I heard my name being called. It wasn't really a call; in fact, it was more of a whisper, a hiss even. "Lucy." I ignored it the first time. If Alan needs something from me that badly, he'll have to tap on my shoulder and ask politely. I refuse to chase him or even walk towards him. He can walk towards me, at this point. I suppose this is me being overtired, acting this way, but I know Alan's used to my moodiness. If he's not by now, he better learn how to get used to it. "Lucy." I turned, looking around the library to find the source of the voice. No one's even looking at me. And while that isn't so uncommon, if someone was indeed calling for me, wouldn't they at least look at me? Everyone had their nose either in a book, were focused on a piece of paper or were trying desperately to win a game of cards. Oh, I hope to God it isn't Will. I don't know what I'm going to do if he finds his way to me again. "Lucy, over here." It took me a moment, but I saw a familiar figure sitting in a secluded area of the room, a book in his hand. Oliver, with, of course, a smile on his face. This isn't all that wonderful, either."Come," he instructed softly, using his cane to gesture to the rather large lounge chair beside him. I groaned. Does he want me to lose my job? I think he does. I need to get to other areas of the ship and make sure everyone's content there as it is. I can't have a chat with him. Not right now. He continued to practically wave his arms about…I'm exaggerating, but I forced my feet to make their way towards him. He grinned when I had finally made it. "Lucy," he smiled, "I see you're by your lonesome today."

"At least here I am." I feel like a one-manned army in this large library and although I'm not overwhelmed at the moment, I was when I had first arrived and no one's needs had been met.

"Take a seat. Please." I shook my head.

"I really can't," I explained, "I have to go the café and take care of—"

"Nonsense," he argued, pulling me down into the chair beside him. "You can't be on your feet all day and all night. You must be tired." I sighed, rubbing my eyes tiredly. I'm tired, all right. My main wonder is…he isn't with a woman because…? I looked up from the carpeted floor to him, my mind tinkering with what Alan had to say the day before. He needs someone. I can't lose my position because Oliver's lonely. He's a nice man, too, I'm sure it wouldn't be hard to find someone for him. Alan's actually right. For once. But, how do I bring that up into a friendly conversation without it sounding like I'm trying to get him out of my hair?

"Do you, uh," I began casually, lowly, "have anyone to accompany you to dinner tonight?" He glanced at me, curious, before chuckling.

"Oh, Lucy…" he laughed, "I, I think you're a very beautiful girl, really I do, but wouldn't you want to have a younger man accompany you to dinner?" I laughed out loud. So loud, in fact, that the library steward gave me a look as if he was ready to slap me across the head with one of the many books in here. I blushed, clearing my throat, turning my gaze from the angered crew member to Oliver.

"Me?" I pointed to myself, struggling not to giggle. He had thought I was asking him to take me, little old me, to dinner!? Oh! "Oh no, not me. I mean, someone who would…" How can I say this? I chose my words as carefully as possible, beginning as slowly as I could without sounding as though I had completely lost my mind. "Someone who would be more suitable for conversation, you know, someone with similar interests as you…" He grinned mischievously at me.

"Someone my own age?" he suggested, closing the book in his hand. Well, frankly, that _is_ what I meant, but not in those exact words.

"No, just someone who…"

"Someone who is as old and gray as me, I suspect." I sighed. He understands people, even if they attempt to be subtle—like me.

"Yes, someone your age," I admitted, trying not to sound as defeated as I actually am. "You know, I was trying to put it nicely." He forced a small smile.

"Lucy…"

"How about her?" I suggested, gesturing to the window behind me to see a woman passing by, who seemed to be floating across the deck. She looked to be about Oliver's age and seemed to be a very attractive woman at that.

"Bah!" he said, shaking his head. He didn't even look!

"Well, how about—"

"Lucy, Lucy."

"She's pretty, Oliver, you two could hit it off and that could be a wonderful—"

"Lucy, please…"

"It could be a wonderful relationship, if nothing more than a friendship—" Oliver, being the calm man that he was, shook his head, placing a finger to his lips to quiet me down, as if he was a scolding parent.

"Lucy, listen to me." I stopped short of my already-failing Cupid conquest. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, you're truly an angel for doing this, but really, I'm alright. In fact, I may be possibly better off by myself when it comes to women."

"No one's better off alone," I disagreed.

"I'm happy by myself," he insisted.

"You can't be happy all the time."

"Who is?" He's got a point there, but…

"Point taken," I begrudgingly agreed. He didn't speak for a second, as a thought seemed to form in his mind.

"Lucy, I've been married many, _many_, come to think of it, too many times for my own taste. I don't need nor want another wife!"

"I'm not saying you have to _marry_ her, but…"

"You're trying to rid yourself of me, aren't you." He said it as more of a statement than as a question, and I now know I've been caught. I've been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, and egg was now on my face. Either pun would be appropriate for this circumstance, I think. My cheeks began to burn read. "Ah-ha, so I _was_ right." I am not taking the fall for breaking the poor man's heart by myself. It was Alan's idea!

"Actually," I chimed in, "it was my co-worker's idea. It was his idea for you to meet someone."

"The steward?" I nodded.

"He's smarter than he looks." I rubbed my forehead in thought. How can I explain this, so I can move on with my measly little existence on this God-forbidden liner and perhaps keep my employment, if luck decides to be on my side for once…? "Listen," I began, trying to make him somehow understand my predicament as I kept my eyes peeled for Maureen, "I am on the absolute verge of losing my job." I cleared my throat, lowering my voice so not everyone on this ship knows my business. I think the only way I may be able to get through to him is to explain. "I don't think socializing with passengers is all that great of an idea due to the fact that my employer isn't very happy with me." I rested my head in my palm, weighing the pros and cons of retelling the tale of what had literally just occurred with Maureen. "It wouldn't matter who I was socializing with, she's not too impressed with my poor choices, my poor performance and for that matter…she's not all that impressed with _me_." I best not tell him. Who knows what he would do with that cane considering the circumstance. He didn't respond, and when he finally did, what he said surprised me.

"And because of Jonathan, you can't risk it." I nodded. He had remembered that.

"_Exactly_."

"Lucy, I understand your situation, but you don't have to find a replacement for yourself."

"I wasn't looking to find a replacement; I just thought maybe you'd like the company."

"Do you honestly think I'd be happier with a lady friend around?" I nodded. He seems like happy person anyway, but it never hurt to have one friend on call…or a companion, even.

"Yes."

"And to be clear, you don't expect me to fall in love with her, do you?" I hid my excitement. Is he taking the idea into his mind for possible consideration? If he is, that's fantastic!

"No, no, she'd just be a friend—"

"And I appreciate the thought," he interrupted, "truly I do, but." His voice stopped cold and he looked away from me. It was as if he wanted to say something else, something more, but decided against it. I must point out that he didn't look upset or sullen, he just seemed to be deep in thought. And then, practically out of nowhere, he glanced at his watch before finally speaking. "But, I suppose you must get back to work, Lucy. I'm not so old and dumb to not realize that. It's not your job to keep me company, as I think I've said before. Thank you for the thought, though, it was very sweet of you." I went to stand, but realized he had practically left me hanging. He was going to say something, something important and relevant, but didn't. Why?

"What did you want to say?" I asked.

"About what?"

"You wanted to say something… and you stopped yourself."

"Because of your position, of course. What if your employer should come in and discharge you in front of all of us?" He said this jokingly, quickly changing from his sudden serious tone where he left me with questions, back to his normal persona. He made what I had said sound completely idiotic and foolish. "The ship's mighty large for her to find just one of her employees, don't you think?" he commented, taking a quick sip of what I presume to be cold tea. I smiled at him, realizing what he was saying. I could stay here all afternoon and she probably wouldn't find me! But…Well…The curiosity, oh no. He left me in a serious predicament. I hesitated, unsure of what to do. I know I should be working, but…I want to know what he's talking about! What's a stewardess to do? I glanced around the room, to make sure everyone was content and happy. No one looked as if they were being deprived of anything…and if Maureen should come, I could just say I stayed here all day and took care of passengers. She wouldn't know the difference if they were content, right? But, Jonathan, and… "She's a busy woman, your employer," he added in, "I doubt she's too worried about you at this point." I know I should work, for Jonathan's sake, but Oliver's enticing me with the wonder of what he was going to say. Against my better judgement, I nodded at him, my inner instinct telling me to stay. God help me.

"It _is_ a large ship," I agreed lowly, looking around the library just to make sure I wasn't being watched by the likes of my employer before slinking into my chair so she wouldn't see me through the window still behind me.

"And if she should come around, _if_ being the keyword there, Lucy, you can always pull a quick maneuvering act as you did before." He pointed to the teapot on the little table beside him to jog my memory of that morning. "Am I right?" I nodded. I can't even believe I'm agreeing to stay in this stuffy library. Then again, it's probably better, if anyone should see me not doing my stewardess duties, sitting with a nice older gentlemen than having a supposed love affair with Will Murdoch. That is his name, isn't it?

"Right." I hesitated, folding my hands together on my lap nervously. "But, what if…?"

"I'll take care of it," he replied nonchalantly. "I doubt your employer will drop you if I'm here. I think she has a little crush on me." He smiled, proud of the fact that he could still attract someone. He does need a woman, though, if the only women he can reel in are all like Maureen. "And besides, this is one item of discussion I never would be able to discuss with a lady friend."

"And why not?" He chuckled slightly, thoroughly amused at the mystery he had made me want to solve.

"She wouldn't understand what I was blabbering on about. I'd like to give you the one reason why I won't be accepting your proposition. And I think my excuse may take more than a moment to explain. I didn't think you'd have the time."

"Oh, I have the time," I reassured him. I may not have the money, but I have the time. As it is, Alan could always take up that second job, if I needed it!

"Good. My grounds, however, could take an hour or so, perhaps all afternoon to explain."

"And why's that?" He leaned towards me, staring straight into my eyes. Just like Alan, he had a sparkle in them, as if he had been waiting for someone to ask him this his entire life.

"My dear," he proclaimed, "I thought you'd never ask."


	21. Fact Rather Than Fiction

He took a sip of his tea, silent, as I sat there, curious as ever. He must know I'm dying here, desperate to know why he refuses to meet any woman and take her to dinner. I waited in vain as he placed the cup back onto the proper saucer.

"Well, it was quite a long time ago," he began, "I may not be able to remember all of the exact facts."

"Oh, that's alright," I reassured him quickly, folding my hands into my lap. "Just begin. Anywhere, really, will do."

"As long as I begin, I suppose?" I nodded. "Alright, then. Much time ago, probably before you or your nice steward friend were even thought of, I was a young man." He glanced at me, smirking. "I know it's hard to imagine, and sadly, I don't have any photographs to prove it to you." I smiled at his gag.

"I believe you."

"When I was a young man, I was quite the flirt. Obviously, not much has changed." He winked. "But, I was _not_ a young man when I met the woman I'm about to tell you about. I was maybe in my fifties, so let's say this was perhaps thirty years ago, at best…" So now, I could successfully figure out his age, even if it's just a roundabout figure! "Well, maybe twenty years ago. Oh, I can't remember the exact year, but it had to be about twenty, thirty years ago. You must be thinking, by the age of fifty, a man should already be married and have a bunch of children running around him." I shrugged.

"I suppose," I began, rather delicately, "that it's different for everyone."

"And your parents?"

"They followed the strict rule."

"Ah, you see, I was different in that sense. I wanted to be a successful businessman before I found love, or when love found me. Whatever way you'd like to say it, I had not found a woman to be my wife at that point in my life, even after I became successful. Not that my aging mother didn't attempt to set me up with every woman this side of the English Channel—Just like you, Lucy, she did try. It was her full-time mission, she wanting me to be married before I became too old to have children. She particularly liked to rub that fact in my face and to this day, I couldn't tell you why. So, one day I decided, what the Hell, I boarded a train where I really had no destination and to my surprise, I met a wonderful girl. It wasn't planned or arranged or anything of the kind, it just _happened_. I got a coach booth just because I didn't particularly care where I was or how I was served, and this girl and I ended up on the same train. And wouldn't you know it, she was sitting in the seat opposite me." He smiled at me. "My goodness, she was so _lovely_, Lucy." He sighed, rather happily, before shaking his head. "She was the sweetest and kindest woman I had ever met, with beautiful blue eyes. _Beautiful_ eyes! But, we, uh, began to talk; she was reading some novel that I had never heard of. I asked her how it was and she merely said, 'Extremely dull.' From that mere two words, I was in love with her. Oh. It was love at first sight, Lucy! We talked for that entire day on board. We talked of merely anything I could think of, my nerves were completely startled by her and once I was able to say a simple sentence without stuttering, I knew I was alright. Even at my older age, I still couldn't get myself together. Anyhow, when night fell, and they changed the seats into those very useful sleeping cars, lovely gadgets those are, those sleeping cars—we discovered we only had one blanket between the two of us—one of the stewards must've forgotten his duties and never put out a blanket for her. I can't remember why it was so cold that night, but it was, which I found odd, considering it was the end of June. But, I didn't question that fact and offered her my blanket, which she refused and instead took off her coat and used it to cover herself. She fell asleep ten minutes later, leaving me in my seat, feeling awful and nothing like the gentleman I was brought up to be. I felt so awful, Lucy, that I took the blanket and wrapped it around her. I fell asleep not long after and by the time it was morning, I discovered she was beside me, the blanket draped around the both of us."

"Isn't that the sweetest thing?" I said, sighing dreamily. Why can't someone do that for me?

"Oh, it gets sweeter, I assure you," he laughed. "By the next day, I think she was falling in love with _me_. It wasn't until after we descended the train that I discovered where she was going—and since I had nowhere to go myself, she asked if I'd like to tag along. So, I in turn, spent three weeks with her in the middle of Switzerland." I burst out in a fit of giggles. "Well, Switzerland was and still is a popular tourist spot, Lucy!" he defended. "As it came to be found out, she and I were the only few who knew English. It was divine, truly, until my parents discovered I was missing and decided I needed to get home as soon as I could, God forbid, I see what was going on in the world. I was found pretty quickly, since I had left somewhat of a paper trail behind me. I wasn't bright and an escort was brought into the country to throw me back onto a locomotive."

"No, you weren't!" I exclaimed, in disbelief. "They went off searching for you when you were an adult!?" He nodded.

"Oh, they were pretty angry about it, too."

"That's ridiculous! You were even _more_ than a grown adult!"

"I thought so too, but I didn't want to give the gentleman who came for me a hard time, so I left. I gave my parents the grief I felt for having to leave so suddenly. They were relentless, Lucy. I was the oldest, which may explain why they were desperate to marry me off, but I didn't care. Before I was thrown back onto the locomotive, I gave the love of my life, that's what I considered her at the time, my home address and where she could contact me and I left. I thought it was all over, I honestly did. A few months later, she sent me a letter and she and I began corresponding. That lasted for about a year. It was during our letter writing that I discovered our rather large age difference. At the time, however, it didn't seem like that big of a problem. She was maybe twenty, I was at least fifty-three. Whatever the age difference, at the time, we both forgot and eventually ignored it. Looking back, age is rather a big deal. Age sets you completely apart. Different generations, different ideals, but we were in love. Either way." He cleared his throat. "All was bliss, and I immediately began making plans to ask her to marry me, but not through the written word. I had planned a long summer holiday for her to spend time with me in England, since she was working through the year as a tutor and only could find the summer to truly spend time with me. She came from quite a large family, turns out. I paid the fare, much to her fuss, and she came to visit that summer by the end of June. My family had no idea of the girl I kept speaking of, until she showed up on our doorstep! My parents had no idea of who I was seeing, since it was none of their business, the only two who knew were my two brothers. It also not their business, but somehow, they found out and I had to bribe them to secrecy. They helped me cover my tracks as much as they could and once she was with me, I knew I wanted to marry her. If it had been a thought before, now I knew it was what I _wanted_. But, I couldn't ask my father about how to go about proposing—For I knew he wouldn't approval of her, and his marriage to my mother was everything short of bliss. But, I continued on her with her, my brothers helping in the process, always making it seem as though I was out doing business or whatnot. As the days went on over the summer, we spent every waking moment together. It was all such a secret and I knew it was just a matter of time before someone slipped. I really have no idea as to why it worked so well for _so long_!"

"Even with the secrecy, did you have a nice summer with her, anyway?" I asked.

"Of course I did, of course! My brothers thought I was a God for all the sneaking around I did, as if we were back in grade school. I'd sneak out at night and we'd have…" His voice trailed off and his lips curled into a mischievous grin. "Well," he smiled, "let's just say we were having many rendezvous and marvelous ones at that!" I tried not to blush, but I can't help it; I blushed.

"I can only imagine," I said, with a polite smile.

"But, summer went by and then autumn came. Of course, I was devastated that she had to go back, but her family was missing her terribly and I placed her on a train. This was about two months after her original scheduled return date. We made plans to meet up again by the next summer."

"Oh, it sound so wonderful," I sighed.

"It really was. We continued to write to one another over the next year, she doing whatever she did, and myself doing what I did. We never discussed careers." He hesitated. "Huh—Oh, well. Best not to dwell, I think."

"Agreed." He took another sip of his tea before leaning back further into his seat. "Is that it?" I asked impatiently, crossing one leg over the other.

"No, no, no that can't be it!" a voice practically screeched. Oliver and I glanced around the room to find that everyone there, including the White Star Line staff present, were leaning over their chairs and desks in vain, trying to hear this story without being too obvious. Well, the cat's out of the bag!

"There has to be more!" the library steward argued, "isn't there?" Was that desperation in his voice or did I merely imagine that?

"Well, yes, but." He turned his attention on the young man before asking kindly, "Your name, please?" The steward pointed to himself, unsure if Oliver was indeed speaking to him or not. Oliver merely nodded.

"Uh…Thomas Kelland, Mr. Bern," he answered.

"Well, Thomas, there _is_ more, but." Oliver's voice stopped short, a look of shock on as his face, as he glanced at me. "I didn't know we had an audience," he murmured to me, the fact that we indeed had an audience finally dawning on him.

"What are we to do?" I asked, my smile indicating I was merely kidding. "Should we move and finish this somewhere else?" A middle-aged woman, much younger than Oliver, perhaps about the age of Maureen, stood, threw her book onto the library's front desk rather hastily and pushed her chair towards us.

"Oh, please don't," she begged, "don't move. I'd like to hear what else happened. My book is so dull, I may die form boredom right here." She gestured around us before adjusting her chair and taking a seat.

"Really?" Oliver asked, surprised.

"Yes, of course!" another woman responded, also moving her chair to join our little circle. "This is the best story I've heard in years!"

"Centuries is more like it!" another female voice exclaimed.

"Oh, stop it, Julie!" the woman who had moved her chair demanded of her supposed friend.

"I think the best thing is that it's true," I said, with a smile to the few women who had surrounded us. "Am I right, Oliver?" He nodded.

"Yes," he answered. "But, maybe I should've just said no to your idea and let it go at that." A small smile appeared on his face before he placed his chin in his palm.

"Maybe, maybe…" I imitated him by resting my head in my hand. A small silence fell upon the library, and it wasn't the normal silence normal for most reading rooms—It was the silence of awaiting approval. Everyone around us, including the library's staff, were all waiting the approval from Oliver Bern, making sure it was socially acceptable for them to engage in a story they were already eavesdropping on.

"Oh, all right, everyone find a seat," Oliver said rather loudly, much louder than a library would usually allow. There was a large, unanimous sigh, almost of relief. It was as if since Oliver, possibly one of the most refined, not to mention one of the richest, men on board said it was alright to contribute to the tale, then it must be and it wasn't going to harm them in any sense of the word. After the sigh, pretty much all of the other residents of the library made their way towards us: men, women, a few young adults, all curious as ever. As the rest of the other passengers found a place to relax and enjoy (by either using chairs, sharing chairs with strangers or sitting on top of the writing desks), at least ten minutes had passed. Even the ever-stuffy library steward joined in! I can't believe that. He climbed onto the desk he was supposed to be standing behind, crossed his legs Indian-style and hunkered down to get a listen into the story of Oliver's past love. I still can't even believe that. I stared, wide-eyed, when he shrugged at me.

"What?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Nothing at all." I watched as everyone quickly made themselves cozy and waited, fidgeting for Oliver, as patient and slow as ever, to continue on. When I couldn't take the waiting any longer, I turned to Oliver, placing a hand on his arm. "Okay, Oliver," I began, "now that _everyone_…" I eyed the people around us, "has gotten comfortable and has made their presence known, can you please continue?"

"Oh, yes, please!"

"I need to hear what happened now!"

"Really?" Oliver asked skeptically, before whistled lowly. "Well, then after…" He smiled, his mind having wandered since the interruption of the other library attendants. "Now, where was I?"


	22. The Idea of Marriage

"After that first summer, she went back home and you continued writing her," I reminded kindly, as we all settled in for his love story.

"Yes, yes. Um, well…we kept on writing to each other, making plans. At that point, I knew I still wanted and planned on marrying her. If the relationship had lasted this long without anyone other than my siblings finding out, I knew it could survive _anything_ and I truly mean _anything_. Actually getting to summertime proved to be difficult, since I wanted to see her—every other day I'd write and she'd do the same. Nothing else interested me, except for waiting on the front step for the mailman with my brothers. They thought it was very humorous how love-struck I was. Then she wrote, saying she could perhaps come out to stay from early spring until autumn. I was elated. By that time, however, my parents, more particularly my mother, was dying for information, so when I went over one day, she searched through my coat pockets and found one of her letters! And since she read my mail, she realized there had already been one excursion out to England. 'Oliver, she was _already _here?' She was screaming this as I went to leave. I didn't respond and as she had a screaming fit for herself, she threw the letter at me before putting up her threatening index finger. 'Just wait until your father gets home!' I was unfazed and went back to my _home_." I had to laugh at that.

"She sounds so dramatic!" one voice blurted out in shock.

"Imagine how she was when I was twenty," he said, eyebrows raised. "After that incident, I'm sure my father knew of what was occurring, but he never brought it up when we saw one another. He didn't have an opinion, I suspect." He shrugged a shoulder. "Anyhow, I wrote, telling her what had occurred. I asked her not to worry herself over such nonsense. I didn't hear from her for maybe two weeks, it felt much longer—I thought she had fallen ill, something horrible had happened, but thankfully, that wasn't the case. She arrived on my doorstep some time later." He sighed. "So, that summer was just as glorious as the one before it. My brothers decided to skip work and even a few classes to spend time with us. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak, and we spent a lot of time together: the entire Bern brothers and her."

"Quite the group, I'm sure," I said, with a small laugh.

"Oh, we were! Summer, once again, passed and our plans were set for me to visit her, this year for certain. I made sure she got onto her train alright and on time, and I told her the year would go by before she knew it."

"You didn't believe that!" the steward laughed. Oliver nodded.

"I didn't," he agreed, "but by this time, two years had slipped away and I wasn't getting any younger and my feelings hasn't dissipated. I was trying to think of the proper way to propose and since we only had so much time together each year, it proved to be extremely difficult. The months of April, May and June of that year, some time before I was off to leave for my visit, I began to search for the perfect engagement ring. Everything seemed to be just fine, until my father spoke to me one night, about her, for the first time since my mother had read my mail. He said that my relations with her must either cease or I must propose as soon as I could. I was jubilant! I had wanted to talk to him, still after all of that time, about how to propose to her and I sat rather eagerly in the chair at the front of his desk, waiting for him to tell me of what I should do. 'Well, Father, how would I go about it?' I had asked him. He glanced up at me and said he had no idea of what I was talking about. I explained I wasn't sure how I would propose to her, since I wanted desperately to marry her—When it's my turn to go visit, should I speak to her father, what was I supposed to do, what was the right way to take this? But, what he said in response was something I didn't expect: 'To cease the relationship, you must tell her it wouldn't be in good social standings to marry a girl not of the same class.' My jaw dropped. 'The relationship, or what there is of it, must cease,' he had continued, 'You can't marry her. And let's not even bring her age into account—imagine the gossips, Oliver! Imagine it, Oliver, they'll bring down the marriage and if you divorce, it'll be a public smudging on the family. Bringing her to dinners here was a different matter entirely, but she's so young! She could be with one of your brothers and even without the age gap, I still wouldn't approve! Social standing is the most important aspect to consider with marriage on the mind, as it is with every family who likes to remain on the good side of the papers. And her age! Oliver, understand that I can't have our name be put into stone for one stupid notion that the girl could possibly be in love with you.' He excused me, before I could say another word, and when he excused someone, he was truly done with them. I couldn't say another word, I was flabbergasted by what he said. How could I stop seeing her? I wanted to marry her and it was my plan to. After what he had said sunk in, I realized it shouldn't be his decision. Quite simply, it wasn't his life, he wasn't allowed to make a choice for me."

"What did you do, then?" one woman in the crowd wondered aloud.

"I ignored him. I didn't care what he had to say, either way. I wrote hastily, asking her what she thought of me visiting now instead of waiting the extra few months, since I didn't particularly enjoy my father's glaring eyes on me. She replied, telling me she made arrangements with her family and I finally bought an engagement ring. One topic we never discussed, let me point out, was where she actually resided. Even though it was listed as the return address on her letters to me and it was the address I wrote on my notes to her, I was surprised to find out she actually lived in Denmark! It wasn't too far from England, so all was well."

"What was her family like?" another female voice asked.

"Well, she had a lot of siblings, five in total, and her parents were so generous and kind to me, considering I had been in love with their daughter for such a long while and had yet to meet them. I think they were a tad weary of my age compared to hers when I first was introduced, since I could've been her father, but they gradually warmed up to me. It took some time, but once they decided I wasn't a completely crazy old man, they were very kind. Her mother was a homemaker, her father was a well-known tailor. But, I discovered my father had been right: they weren't of the same social standing as us. I didn't particularly care, but he was correct on the fact that besides the enormous age difference between us, it would be considered a _bad_ marriage. I still didn't care. I wasn't burdened by what she had or didn't have, it didn't matter. I spent a lovely summer there. I waited a month or so of my being there until I asked her father one night about proposing marriage. He was hesitant, I remember that, but then embraced me, saying something along the lines of whatever she wants, he'd be happy. He made sure to note that he wanted to walk her down the aisle and give her away. Since I had his permission, I waited for some time before taking her out to dinner. No one knew of my plan and I proposed. I managed to ask her, without completely fainting from nerves and I was engaged to the girl of my dreams. She cried, I was crying, it was quite the night."

There were romantic sighs across the room, daydreams probably dancing in their heads and Oliver's eyes glossed. He must be thinking back to that day. After a few moments passed, he cleared his throat.

"Then, what?" I asked.

"Well, then I went home. I was a different man—A man is completely different with the prospect of marriage on the horizon. I don't know if that's true with every man, but I know it was true with me; I was completely different, but in a positive light. I was in a positive mindset from the people around me and my brothers thought I had gone insane. Until, one day, the news accidentally spilt out." There was a general gasp among us. "My brother, the middle child, had let it slip, by accident while I was there one night for dinner. He had managed to pry the information out of me once I returned from the journey and although I swore him to secrecy, it hadn't work too well." He forced a smile. "My father got up from the dinner table and left us to our food. I hit my brother on the head for his stupidity and then excused myself. I didn't know what to expect from any of them, but I quickly finished eating and departed. I wrote her a letter and had it sent out by the next morning, telling her I was planning on coming and we would marry when I arrived. Breakfast in turn, the next day, was absolute murder. I can't even believe my father wanted me there, since I had to force myself to face him. The tension between all of us was so tense, it could be cut with a knife. Until my father spoke up. 'Quite a joke you played on all of us, Oliver,' he said, with a chuckle. 'He wasn't kidding,' I noted of my brother, 'I'm engaged.' My father, trying not to lose his temper, suddenly handed me this piece of folded paper. I was agitated at that point and opened it, only to find the terms of the family inheritance once my father should die."

"And what did they say?" Thomas, the steward, still seated atop the front desk, wondered.

"It said that if I was to marry her, I would lose my share of the inheritance. In fact, it stated that I was to marry any woman who was at least twenty years younger than myself, my estate would be split amongst my brothers. My father quickly explained that he still thought she was too young to marry and our association with her or her family would be disastrous. I was to marry a woman my own age and with the same social standing as the rest of us. He had adjusted his will to follow this new clause and it was all designed to happen should I decide to wed." My jaw dropped.

"But, but…He couldn't do that to you!" I argued, slamming a fist on the arm of my chair. "It isn't right, you were both consenting adults, you two were in love—"

"Oh, Lucy," he sighed, "even though he had those terms written out, I wasn't worried. My father was determined to get me to wed the woman he wanted me to and he thought this was the one final action he could take to assure my loyalty. It didn't work. Yet again, once the news had sunken in, it didn't seem all that important. I was in love with the girl of my dreams, and money or no money, I know we could make it work. I was college-educated, I wasn't a complete fool and I had somewhat of a resume. I had my dignity, it's not as though I robbed someone or killed a fellow. I was just in love, engaged, and I was going to marry her whether my family, particularly my father, liked it or not."

"What did you do?" I asked, worried. "Did you still go see her?" He nodded.

"Mm-hmm. I went to explain to her the newest installment in the Bern booby trap, only to find her to have gone away. Turns out, unknown to me, that she had decided I wasn't the right man, let alone husband for her and she had decided to marry a different man."

"No!" I cried this, gasping, as the other listeners around me did the same.

"Oh, _yes_. She had met up with a childhood friend and they were married. At least, I suspect that's how it must've went, I never asked any one of her relatives when I arrived and heard the news. I doubt they would've known, anyway, since they all seemed a little more than surprised at the whole incident. I was crushed and went back home. I didn't dare tell my family what had transpired, but my brothers assumed something must've went terribly wrong since I still wasn't wearing any type of wedding band. I was heartbroken, I could barely get myself to function. I don't know what it was that got me back on the proper road, back to where I was before I had met her, but I finally gained my dignity and self-respect back and I continued on."

"Well, did you ever see her again?" I asked, interrupting anything else he may have wanted to say. Oliver shook his head.

"No, I never did. Not that I expected to; I hoped, but hopes don't particularly work too well for me. I always thought when I boarded a train, 'This could be the day' but it never was." He chuckled. "You can't fault a man for dreaming, I suspect, since I swore to myself, if I ever found her, I would tell her how much I truly cared for her. But, I didn't see her again. Perhaps I still will, I'm not quite in the grave yet. However, I heard that after she married, she got herself a beautiful country home—her husband must make a good living doing whatever he does, and they had a couple of children. For all I know, they're probably still married."

"Did _you_ ever marry?" A new voice questioned what myself and I'm sure others seated around me were thinking. I glanced around to find the voice belonging to yet again, the very inquisitive library steward. You'd think for a _library_ steward he'd read this sort of tale in a novel. I suppose not. Oliver nodded his response to the question.

"Yes, I did. To a very lovely lady by the name of Susan."

"Susan!" I shrieked out the woman's name, instead of merely thinking it. I blushed crimson, cowering in my chair. "Excuse me," I apologized softly, "but _beach sand_ Susan?"

"Yes, her. I forgot I told you about her." He smiled. "Getting back to where I was, I only married once." He kept speaking, completely shrugging off the fact that I had shouted his wife's name. "Unlike some men my age," he added in as an afterthought. He winked at me, as if to say all was well, even if I had burst out in an unexplained tantrum. "But, she passed away about a year or so ago." There was a sudden sadness that spread across us, and the shifting in chairs I had heard, silently sending messages to Oliver Bern to keep on with his tale, came to a halt. "Oh, now, don't feel sorry for me!" He said this rather cheerfully, much to my shock. "I spent so many wonderful years with my Susan, even if we did get married later on in our lives. Her death was not sudden in the least, she was very ill. And she wasn't afraid. I admired her for that quality, amongst others. In the midst of my grieving, I knew that she was and still is in a much better place, much better than I could provide, since she wasn't suffering any longer. But, I hadn't met her the way I wanted to meet my future wife, but I can't complain too much. It had began as a last-minute attempt on my father's part, still trying to get me to commit, before his death. He wouldn't die until about fifteen years later, when I had been married to her for a number of years—but I knew, even if she wasn't the love of my life, I could love her. And I did. She was a wonderful human being and so kind, so generous—I couldn't have asked for a better person to spend my life with." He smiled, cordially, acknowledging the people around us. "Well, I suppose that's just about it," he said, with a small sigh, glancing at his pocket watch.

"Oh, that's it?" a woman asked in disbelief.

"I'd tell more," Oliver reassured her, "if it wasn't time for dinner preparations to begin. And three, two, one…" And just like clockwork, the sounds of the ship's bugler began to echo across the deck and inevitably, into the library. Oh, that damn bugler, I'm going to wring his neck with that instrument! I can't stand him! "Perfect timing," he noted aloud, placing his watch back into his pocket.

"The bugler." I gasped. "The bugler, oh! Dinner!" There's so much work to be done! I can't believe I spent the entire afternoon listening to Oliver's love life! I never expected to, really, I never did! I just expected his story to take a little bit of time, an hour at most, not an entire afternoon! I should've merely continued on my way when he said _no_ to my proposition, for now I feel so immensely guilty about sticking my nose in where it didn't belong. I don't even have a chance to apologize for being so naïve right now. Definitely, I will apologize, and I'll bring Alan with me…

But, but! An entire _afternoon_!? That's an entire afternoon…wasted, gone…and I may never get it back. More than not, I may be paying for it longer than just the few hours I wasted. I'll be discharged, fired, thrown overboard if Maureen should know. She must know by now! She knows _everything_!

"And that is why, Lucy—"

"I'm sorry, Oliver," I interrupted, jumping from my chair, "we'll have to finish this later on, I must get going!" Of course, I should've been working. I'm such a bad stewardess, truly, I am. I should be catering to passengers all day, all night, even if I'm not getting paid all that much to do so. It's _my_ employment position, my responsibility and especially after this morning, you'd think a girl would learn! I began to break out in a cold sweat; I suppose I'll never learn. "Perhaps I'll see you at dinner, we'll talk then!" If I don't lose my employment by that time, which seems like a reality after my afternoon lounging today. I roughly pushed past the passengers still attempting to rise from their own chairs, almost knocking one woman over and injuring myself in the process.

"I'll be looking forward to it," Oliver said. "And do be careful, don't hurt yourself!" I forced a smile, before beginning to sprint towards the exit, as if it this action was the safest in the world.

"I will be!" I called. This supper business is a different matter entirely, compared to one afternoon! And if one passenger even hints to another steward about my being missing, if Maureen didn't know where I was all day before, she'll surely put two-and-two together that I wasn't doing what I should've been doing and that…that'll be _it_.

On the same token, Oliver's right: it is quite a large ship and me being gone for a few hours shouldn't make too much of a difference, should it? Who am I kidding? She probably already knows! She has nothing better to do than watch for me to make a blunder, so she can reprimand me for it. It would be my own fault if she did, but in my own defense, I was pulled into Oliver's romantic shenanigans and became so involved I couldn't just leave! I couldn't leave without hearing the end, it wouldn't have been proper. I shouldn't have let him lead me in like that in the first place. My judgement will always be off! Well, I've learned. I made a mistake, one of many I'm sure to make in my lifetime, and I shouldn't lose my employment for it. Everyone makes mistakes. After all, Maureen Kexington _was_ born.

Either way, if I hurry now, I can make up for any lost time and still make it to America in one piece! Besides, I'm sure she didn't miss me.


	23. Illness

I wasn't missed. And as grateful as I am for that mere fact, I'm still agitated. Unlike my usual nightly rituals aboard this liner, I have found myself in Titanic's kitchen. The reason why is not a pleasant one, but it does beat helping women with all that utter nonsense that goes along with preparing for dinner: tying their cages as tight as I can, finding the _proper_ jewelry amongst their clutter and finish all of those other wonderful chores I had signed on with this company to do. My position, as if I need to be reminded, is to attend to the first-class. But, with the crisis on our hands, I think the women can make it without me for one night.

Something's creeping its' way around Titanic and it's not a person. I'm not sure _exactly_ what it is, but I know most of the waiters and staff who work during dinnertime have been out of commission as a result of it. Either its' a cold, seasickness, a touch of the flu, even possibly food poisoning, I'm not sure, but so much of the dinner staff have been requested to stay in their staterooms (at the ship's doctor's insistence, I might add)! They needed someone, _anyone_, actually, to fill in for the extra kitchen staff and waiters who were ill. That's how Alan, myself, and even some of the underused staff on the ship—really, anyone who is employed under the company and not under the weather, has been ordered to help. And as much as I prefer dealing with food rather than the first-class passengers, this cookery and first-class dining area are breeding grounds for illness, and I don't want to catch whatever seems to be going around.

Everyone, however, seems to have come down with this mystery ailment at the same time: after the aperitifs in the Reception Room, but before the first-class retired to the dining room. I don't know if they're all making it up, but it seems to me if the doctor got involved, it has to be true. I doubt he'd go along with the shenanigans, he has better things to do. At least, I _think_ he has better things to do! Either way, somehow we all got involved and the chaos is making _me_ feel ill.

At least the chefs haven't been put out of service! The cooking is resuming and although the dishes are being cluttered against the sink, the trays of appetizers are still being served and no one, other than the crew and perhaps Thomas Andrews, knows of the situation at large and how truly chaotic it has become.

"We need caviar," Alan informed me as he entered the kitchen, balancing a metal tray in his right hand. I squinted at him, as if he couldn't see that I too was balancing food in each hand, attempting to get the plates together for the remaining idle waiters to take out into the dining hall.

"Congratulations," I declared, before loudly asking the others around me, "can someone get him a medal?" I brushed past him, placing the dishes down. "We've got eleven courses to serve, Alan. Must you always come to me when you need something?"

"Well, who else could I go to?" I sighed, before gesturing around me, to the people pushing against us in and out of the kitchen. He makes it sound as though it's just him and I here, there are too many people here to count!

"How about one of them?"

"But, I don't _know_ them!"

"Don't give me that," I warned, going towards the icebox. I took Alan by the arm and dragged him to the front of the freezing machine, opening it. "Take the caviar out once you find it, wait fifteen minutes and put it into the little dish on that tray of yours!"

"But, but, Lucy—"

"_What_?" He hesitated, before pointing to his new white suit, black bow tie waiter's uniform, one he had taken from a now-ill employee, as if wondering my opinion of how he looks. "Alan, I don't have time for this—" I disappeared back into the gaggle of crew, leaving him there to finish up my current task, before turning back only briefly. "Don't forget to shut the door!" He grimaced at me.

"WE NEED CHAMPAGNE!" an unfamiliar voice howled into the overheated box known as Titanic's kitchen.

"Alright, alright!" I acknowledged, detouring and going towards the icebox once more. As if I don't have other things to do! When I returned to where I was standing only seconds before, I found Alan still in front of the open box, the tray once in his hand balancing on one of the counters, searching for the caviar. "Any luck?" I asked, hopeful.

"No," he answered, his head in the icebox, echoing back into his own ears. "And besides." He glanced over his shoulder to me, an angry look spread across his face. "I'm not too happy with you right now."

"_Me_?" I asked, trying to sound as sweet as possible.

"I ask for one favor, Luce, one favor and you disappear on me!"

"Oh, Alan, you know how busy it is!" I snapped. One favor? _One_ favor? Oh, he's asked me for more than one, but I can't argue with him or my eardrums may just explode from all of the noise! As it is, I'm practically yelling this to him and I'm only a few inches from him! I'm shoved against one of the kitchen's counters, near one of the many sinks in the room, still on a venture to get yet another chilled bottle of champagne—as if those first-class need it with appetizers! As I went to speak again, an unknown cook, dressed and dirty, full of food from the courses to follow, pushed me out of his way. "Well, excuse me!" He mumbled something and didn't stop, disappearing into the crowd of White Star Line issued suits, chef coats and regular company crew uniforms.

"You alright?" Alan asked, head still in the cooler.

"I thought you were angry with me," I said, sarcastic.

"Oh, I'm not, I'm just teasing. You know that." I placed a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to get him away from it so I could grab a champagne bottle. And now, I can get a pretty good look at his uniform and frankly, I'm unsure of it. I don't think the white shirt, black slacks and matching bow tie works too well for him. Perhaps it's because I'm used to the steward ensemble! Oh, well, thank goodness at least _I _didn't have to change clothes from what I usually wear, which is horrible, to more hideous drapery. That in itself would force me to seek other means of receiving a paycheck.

"Well," I stated, "I'm glad you're just kidding." I stopped. "Even if the uniform isn't all that wonderful."

"It's the white, isn't it?" he implored, shifting a few bottles of champagne from the chilly storage unit, still in search of the caviar. "Maureen, you know how she is." I don't even need to respond to that. I know how she is!

"Hey, hand me one of those bottles, would you?" He didn't respond, quickly taking one of the bottles and giving it to me. I made sure it was the proper champagne, before turning to the counter before me. Now, all I need is a bottle opener. "Here, the champagne!" I shouted to the unknown person originally looking for it. I had to use my entire strength to even get that out; the noise has suddenly increased!

"Do you need a bottle opener?" Alan took a bottle opener from his trouser pocket, placing it in my palm. I'm not sure I even want to ask _why_ he has one in his possession. He probably saw the look of awe on my face and merely smiled, tilting his head. "Always be prepared." With that, he turned back to his enemy: the icebox.

"Oh, champagne!" An unknown waiter, also clad in white, practically ripped the champagne bottle and bottle opener from me. And before I was even given a gracious smile, he had vanished and may have quite possibly left us in the overheated kitchen.

"You're welcome!" I stopped for one moment, brushing sweat from my forehead, attempting to regain the barrings I had before that rude waiter seized the bottle from my hands.

"You know," Alan began, standing back to his full height, "I don't think there's any caviar in there." I adjusted my collar, agitated at all of the commotion around us.

"You think so?" I asked, once again sarcastic. I went for the cabinet above my head and managed to pull out a jar of caviar. "Well, I don't know about that…"

"Why you!" He slammed the icebox door shut and snatched the jar from me. "You could've told me it was right there, you know, I didn't have to struggle!" I shrugged a shoulder.

"You have to put that on ice," I informed him as he began to prepare a new tray.

"Really?" he wondered, rather clueless. I nodded.

"They expect it to be cold, it's too warm from being in here." He opened the jar, unfazed, before cringing with disgust. The smell, I'm sure.

"Uh, that smells _horrible_." I nodded. I knew it!

"And they eat it, too."

"Absolutely awful," he professed, spooning the appetizers into a small dish. "Thank God I'm not a waiter." He stopped short, glancing over momentarily at me. "Hand me some ice, would you?" Rather than taking orders from someone I didn't know, I didn't argue with him for once and instead went back into the icebox. Taking out a bag of ice, I handed it to him.

"Just place it around the dish," I directed, "I think that's how it's done, anyway." He nodded, comprehending as he scattered ice around the platter, pushing it towards the caviar bowl with little effort.

"How's that?" he asked, trying not to laugh. I bit my lower lip. It looked awful. Between the fish eggs and the way he had placed the ice on the tray, it was absolutely atrocious. Thank goodness he _isn't_ a waiter! He picked up the tray, struggling to balance as he waited for my reaction.

"Just serve with a smile," I said, with a shrug, "and it should work."

"Well—" A loud thump and crashing glass stopped him mid-sentence and we both turned. Somewhat of a harmonious gasp echoed through the room and a waiter, _another_ waiter, had collapsed, himself unconscious in a pool of cold champagne! "And another one bites the dust." He cleared his throat, not in the least bothered by what had just occurred. "So, how do I look?" I gasped as the waiters and other employees around me began to step _over_ him. I'm bewildered at the lack of compassion here!

"Alan, my God!" I pointed to the unconscious young man. "You're asking me how you look and there's someone comatose on the tile!" This mystery illness is awful and very, _very_ contagious, I now grasp. "What the Hell, how can you ask such a thing!" Picking up my skirts, I pushed my way towards him, forcing other crew, so diligent before, to focus on their problem at hand: a solider of their army was senseless and more importantly, now useless. I hadn't even gotten to him when I heard the voice of the Devil requesting for my presence.

"LUCILLE SULLIVAN!"

"Oh, you have got to be _kidding _me!" I threw my arms up in the air, disbelieving this was actually happening at this exact moment, right now, and here I am, swarmed in chaos. I had to ignore the waiter for the time being, as much as I didn't want to. As nervous as I was for him, I was more nervous and absolutely terrified for my soon-to-be lack of employment if I didn't hurry. He'll still be there when I get back.

I was about to curse, my frustration ready to be taken out on anyone near me, in this case, Alan following at my heels, but I stopped myself with Maureen so close. I must keep my eyes on what will come in my very near future if I don't injure anyone: a check addressed to me.

"Is that Maureen?" he asked, clueless.

"Alan, this is not the time for your commentary!" I snapped, shooting him a look over my shoulder as I pushed the swinging kitchen door open with all of my might. I was expecting to find Maureen, but she was nowhere to be found.

The door, however must've swung back from the force I applied to it, since I heard a groan and yet another thump. Turning, I found Alan sprawled out across the tile floor, covered in caviar from his face down to the chest of his borrowed uniform. Its' even in parts of his hair! I burst out into a laugh, my anger wasting away to nothingness. Seeing a fellow co-worker drenched in smelly fish eggs was all I really needed to convulse with amusement!

"Well." He spit out a few bites of appetizer that had been thrown into his mouth, sitting up. "I'm glad _you_ find this entertaining." I nodded, kneeling down to his level. At this point, I was in tears, since this couldn't have happened at a better time! As a result of the timing, it's actually a diversion for me to see him in such an array! I put my hands to my mouth, trying to stop both my giggles and my tears, but I just couldn't. I fell to the ground myself, wiping my tears.

"This is better than live theater!" I choked out, taking in a deep breath in attempt to control myself. Just glancing at him is making me now, quite uncharacteristically of me, might I point out, to snort with delight! I looked away, taking another breath. "Alright, alright I think I'm over it." I turned back to him and just began right back up again! He began to laugh himself, picking a piece of ice from his hair and throwing it onto the now disheveled tray.

"Do you…do you…" He couldn't control himself now, my laughs having passed to him!

"Do I what?" I managed to say, more tears coming to my eyes.

"Do you think I could—"

"Could you…?"

"Serve this?" There was a pause in the laughter, before it erupted again. As it did, the other kitchen aids began to pass us with more trays in their hands, peering down at us as if we were hysterical children. But, did we care? Not in the least! I pulled Alan towards me, away from the revolving kitchen door and we continued to giggle with glee.

"LUCILLE SULLIVAN!" I let out a slight groan, fixing my hair away from my eyes as the roaring died down immediately.

"Must she ruin everything?" Alan sighed, brushing the rest of the appetizer from his outfit and onto the tray he had situated on his lap.

"Obviously, it's part of her duties." I stood, and as another waiter passed us, I quickly snatched a linen napkin from the tray he had. He either didn't notice, as a result of all the commotion or didn't want to argue with me for it back, since he continued on, trying not to step onto the caviar mess around us. Bending down to Alan's height, I unfolded the napkin and attempted to mop up the caviar. "Here," I offered, "this should help."

"Lucy, Lucy," he laughed, taking the cloth from me, "go. I've got it."

"I'm sorry," I apologized, "truly. Let me help—"

"It was an accident. Go before you lose your head."

"Are you sure?"

"LUCILLE SULLIVAN, IF I MUST SHOUT ANY LONGER!"

"_She's_ pretty positive. Go." I forced a smile, standing. I glanced around the first-class dining hall, in search of my employer. In truth, I'm wondering why she feels the need to yell so many times, considering how many first-class passengers are around, eating—passengers, in truth, with some influence on board. Oh, well, best not to worry. I moved away from the kitchen, in search for her. I'm surprised she's not closer, considering how well her shouts radiated into the noisy kitchen—until a grip on my wrist whirled me around. I then found myself face to face with Maureen Kexington. I spoke too soon!

"Ms. Kexington." I forced a small curtsey and her hand dropped to her side.

"I want to ask you where you've been, since I've only be requesting your presence for the past ten minutes—" It has _not_ been ten minutes! I know I had a little distraction with the kitchen door hitting Alan with such force that he fell to the ground, but I know it didn't take ten minutes. But, perhaps…maybe it _was_ ten minutes…

"I was in the kitchen, Ms. Kexington," I explained, half-lying and knowing the full truth. She groaned, tired.

"This illness is rather contagious, and I don't want any of my stewards ill. Make sure you follow all of the sanitary procedures." Did she call me here just to tell me that? Does that mean she's actually _concerned _for our well-being? No, it can't be concern! That's not her whatsoever. Can I even begin to think that the fever may be affecting her, amongst everyone else? Could I only hope for such joys?

"Of course, ma'am, I'll be as careful as I can be." I can't even believe I'm able to utter out these words without as much fear as earlier today! The sickness must've passed to me, too. She smiled, pleased with the correct responses I gave. She went for her apron pocket, taking out a handful of what looked to be envelopes and waved them in front of me.

"Now, I need to ask a favor of you—" As if that's new! I nodded, nervously fiddling with my hands. "Your gentleman friend." She gestured over her shoulder to what looked to be Oliver, sitting amongst the other first-class, eating one of tonight's courses, in happy spirits as usual. "Well, he had given these letters to me, asking if I could get them to the mailroom—" I wasn't listening, I'll admit, for Oliver began to stand and he practically crumbled under his body weight, falling back down into his chair. However, Maureen continued to talk about other such nonsense I wasn't paying attention to and I was forced to turn my attention back to her. I really want to shove a napkin into her mouth and make sure Oliver's alright. "Do you know where the mailroom is?" I nodded.

"I think so." She stared at me, her shoulders tensing, her patience almost gone. I agitated her in a matter of seconds. I didn't think my response through, that much is now obvious!

"It's a very simple question, Lucille: Do you know where the mailroom is or not?" My mind began to act as a blueprint of Titanic and I attempted to locate the mailroom with no success. Instead of angering her more than she needed to be at this precise moment, with me standing before her, I nodded.

"Yes," I lied. Harold or even, dare I say it, that officer from last night, would definitely know where the mailroom is. If nothing else, Harold owes me since I danced with him!

"Good." She shoved the envelopes into my hand. "Just don't go gallivanting below decks this time," she ordered.

"Of course, Ms. Kexington."

"Lucy!" I turned to follow the voice to see Alan, still with the caviar mess across his uniform, walking with a passenger towards the doors to the stairs. I didn't respond. Alan bellowed my name once more, this time much louder, not remembering the fact that I was standing with the woman with the power when it comes to our hard-earned money. Rather than pointing to Maureen, I glanced at him and then at her, refusing to move my head, hoping he would take the hint and continue on with whatever he was doing.

"Oh!" she roared, agitated. "I'll take care of it." She kidnapped the envelopes back from me. "Go help Mallard." I curtseyed.

"Yes, ma'am." She didn't have to tell me twice—I've learned that much. I'd rather scrub pots for the rest of the voyage if I knew full-well I wouldn't have to deal with her. If only! I brushed past her and began to make my way towards the doorway where I had last seen Alan with the passenger. Passing the doors, I see Alan near the elevator, attempting to push the appropriate button to alert an operator of his presence, which was rather difficult to do, considering the passenger with him was leaning on him with full force.

"What's the trouble, Alan?" I called, briskly walking towards him. With the sound of my voice, the passenger, their arm wrapped around Alan's neck, glanced over their shoulder at me and proceeded to smile widely. Oliver. "Oliver," I said, rather surprised, "hello." His smile faded as I reached them.

"Oh, hello, Lucy."

"Lucy," Alan exclaimed, relieved, "thank God, I needed another set of hands—"

"Don't tell me you've contracted the disease!" I said to Oliver, with a small giggle as I pressed the button Alan had been struggling to hit.

"I think he did," Alan answered, serious. As I looked at him, Oliver _does_ look awfully pale, much lighter than what I presume to be his usual skin color. He seemed to be a shade of gray, truth be told. My giggles died down as the usual enthusiasm in his eyes I was used to was now nowhere to be found. Instead, his eyes looked to be somewhat dull. This was besides the fact that heavy bags under his eyes made him look rather exhausted and more deteriorated than when I last saw him a short time ago.

"Something's not right," Alan said, concerned, into my ear.

"It's just a mere case of seasickness," Oliver informed me, obviously having heard him, "I've never been one to take so many dinner courses and not have an upset stomach as a result." The elevator came into view as Oliver attempted to stand on his own. He began to fall backward, but Alan and I were able to catch him before any kind of accident occurred. The operator opened up the gate and assisted us into the box. Locking the gate, he returned to his original post, staring straight ahead. I moved to Oliver's right and he took my arm. He's shaking. I eyed Alan, nervous, but he didn't notice for he had his attention on the operator.

"B Deck, please," he requested.

"Of course, sir." Alan began to slowly move his way around the small box, having to maneuver past me to reach the other side of the elevator. As small as this lift actually is, I find it difficult to believe he's making the attempt and I'm not quite sure why. When he was within inches of my ear, he whispered:

"I don't think falling over in a wave of unconsciousness is alright, especially _twice_." I didn't respond, but my eyes widened at the truthfulness of his statement. As much as Alan can be a pain, he _is_ right about this…at least, I think he's right. He got to Oliver's left and watched cautiously for any signs of our first-class passenger struggling to stay on his two feet. I struggled to do the same.

This didn't seem like the regular case of seasickness, it appeared to be the ailment that had put many of Titanic's waiters out of service for the evening. I can't, however, know what he has without any proper medical training. But, merely looking at him, he looks horrible, absolutely _horrible_ and although he may be drowsy, it wouldn't cause him to—Alan and I must get him to his suite so the proper people can be called.

"Is this alright?" I asked Oliver, gripping his arm with some strength. He tilted his head _yes_ in reply.

"Lucy, I was fine this afternoon, wasn't I?" Oliver asked, in a somewhat confused tone I didn't recognize.

"Yes."

"So, in conclusion…I, I should be alright." I'm not sure what to say to get this across to Oliver without making him more nervous, but…

"We'll just bring you to your suite," I offered, "how's that?" He smiled down at me, so relieved it made my heart ache.

"Oh, Lucy, I don't want to bother you." He turned his attention to Alan. "Or you, either, Alan. I—"

"Good," I interrupted as the elevator screeched to a halt. I don't want him to argue, since he looks absolutely afflicted, whether with seasickness or the mystery malady, I don't care. I just want to get him to his suite!

The operator unlocked the gate, saying something to Alan I didn't quite hear as he assisted us in shifting Oliver from the elevator to the corridor. Still trembling, I held onto his arm with all of my might, keeping my eyes on the ground, watching his feet and mine.

"Are you three alright now?" the operator asked, concerned, one hand on the gate to his box.

"We are now, thanks," Alan replied, sporting a small smile as he took Oliver's held-out, unusually-shaking arm. "Oliver, where's your room?" he asked, rather calmly, considering the situation.

"Down the hall, B…B…" His voice trailed off as he released my hand and went into his inner jacket pocket, taking out his room's key. Giving it to Alan, he pointed to it, unbalanced and I immediately took his wrist before his body decided to keel backwards onto the first-class carpeting. "It's on the right," Oliver explained, sounding quite sure of that fact as we slowly began to teeter down the hall. Well, in actuality, Oliver was the only one to teeter, and I just stood at his side, shaking a bit with apprehension, waiting, waiting for the worst to happen.

Before I knew it, Alan was struggling with the room's door, shoving the key into the lock as Oliver held onto me for dear life. Alan, meanwhile, was grumbling and cursing at the same time, complaining of his ruined uniform, which isn't even _his_ and of his employment. Actually, his complaining is nothing out of the ordinary and with one final push on the wooden door, it creaked open and I silently said a prayer of appreciation. We brought Oliver into the suite, and there we were: in yet another first-class sitting room, much alike the other rooms of the same price-range, but it only looks similar if you notice the basics. And that's all I have time to notice!

"Bedroom," I said to Alan, "where could that be?"

"Oh, the lounge is just fine," Oliver stated, with a yawn. He gestured to a rather fragile-looking sofa in the corner of the room. He'll collapse that, for sure! Anyone with any type of build to their frame would crush that lounge.

"We'll find the bedroom," Alan suddenly decided with one unsure glance at the sofa. He dropped Oliver's arm and jogged to the right of the room, where a doorway stood. He glanced in before shaking his head. "Not it."

"It's on the right," Oliver said, pointing over his shoulder behind us, sounding as though half in a daze.

"Well, then." Alan stood once more on Oliver's right, adjusting his bow tie as if we had all the time in the world.

"Alan!" I screeched, "stop fixing the damn tie and help me here!"

"Oh." He forced a laugh, taking Oliver's arm. "Right." I growled under my breath as we began our trek towards the bedroom. I allowed myself in first, keeping a firm grasp on Oliver as Alan led him in and we brought him towards the bed. I was about to tell him to sit, but he sort of…well, he sort of _fell_ onto the mattress. Surprised at himself, he looked up at me, now fully wide-awake, as if moments before he had been in a state of fatigue. He chuckled.

"Well," he sighed, "I suppose I'm not as young as I used to be." Alan placed a hand on my shoulder. I turned to him and he gestured to the doorway, unsure.

"I'll get the doctor?" he suggested.

"Please do."

"And where is he, _exactly_?" he asked, slightly embarrassed. Men, they're useless!

"He usually eats with Mr. Andrews," I explained. "Did you see _him_ tonight?"

"No, if I saw the doctor, I wouldn't be asking you—"

"Not the doctor, Mr. Andrews!"

"Oh…I saw him." He stood there, as if shaken from the combination of the dinner disarray and then Oliver's sudden attack of weakness. Agitated, I shoved him towards the door.

"Go find him!"

"Yes ma'am," he replied hastily, joking with a small salute. He disappeared from sight and I turned my attention to Oliver, who was toying with his bow tie.

"Here, Oliver, let me." I brushed his hands aside and undid the tie, placing it onto the bedside table. "Better?" He nodded.

"Much, thank you." He smiled up at me and although it was an exhausted effort, it was a smile of gratitude. Don't ask me how I know; I just could tell. It's nice to know you're appreciated every once in a while, I think.

"How about the dinner jacket?" I asked. "It looks awfully warm."

"It is," he agreed. He slipped his arms out of the jacket and I helped him off with it, before folding it over the end of the bed. "Oh, where did Alan go?" he suddenly asked, noticing my co-worker had disappeared.

"To get the doctor," I answered calmly, pulling the pillows out from underneath the neatly-made bed. "Lie down, Oliver, you look just awful."

"I'll be just fine," he assured, "let that doctor have his supper, for crying out loud." He stared me straight in the eyes, his brightness somewhat having returned. "It's just a case of seasickness, Lucy. I don't know what they're telling you about illness aboard, but honestly, making a mountain out of a molehill—"

"There _is_ an illness going around," I interrupted, as if to explain the reaction of Alan and then myself. But, perhaps, it was just seasickness. He seems to have come out of his tired state, at least _somewhat_. Oliver shrugged a shoulder, unfazed, kicking off his left shoe before his right.

"Hogwash," he spat, with a loud yawn. "I'm not a young man anymore, my insides aren't like they used to be. However, your concern is very kind, I know there are a lot of other passengers to contend to—"

"Part of my employment is to be concerned," I said, with a small laugh. "And besides, if you're ill, who am I going to talk to?" He grinned, proud. "This has hit most of the waiters already," I explained, "why have it affect the passengers if we can prevent it?"

"It's just seasickness, I'm sure." I wouldn't be so sure. "Don't look at me that way, Lucille, you look _just_ like—"

"Have a bit too much to drink Oliver?" a thick Irish accent asked with a laugh as Dr. O'Loughlin, a white-haired, white-mustached man, appeared, Alan behind him. "I knew you were quite the drinker, Oliver, but not to the extent of illness. Well! Now I know better, since this waiter told me of your drunken shenanigans!" He slapped Alan on the back as he began to heartily laugh. Alan, however, almost fell flat onto the ground, not expecting such a blow. He managed to catch himself, though. I hid my laughter as the doctor threw his large black bag onto the bed beside Oliver. "Now, in all seriousness, let's see what seems to be the trouble." The doctor turned to us. "If you'd excuse us."

"Of course, of course," Alan agreed, taking my hand as the two gentlemen began to speak. "We should probably be getting back." He pulled me towards him. "Maureen gave me the look of death when I went back," he muttered between clenched teeth.

"You go ahead," I urged, "I'll meet back up with you."

"You sure?"

"I want to make sure Oliver's alright."

"If you're sure." I nodded. I'm positive.

"I'll catch up with you," I promised.

"Alright. Feel better, Oliver!" He disappeared with a wave and seconds later, the suite's door clicked shut behind him. Well, that gets rid of him for now. As the doctor and Oliver chit-chatted, I walked towards him.

"Lucy, thank you for your help," he said graciously, a small smile appearing on his face. "And make sure to thank Alan, too, if I don't see him again tonight." He once more yawned.

"Of course." I hesitated, taking a glance at the doctor. I'd feel just terrible if I didn't know how this was going to turn out, if he was merely suffering from seasickness or if he had come down with what has been plaguing the crew. "Oliver," I began, "I'll come back to check on you in a few hours. Is that alright?" He took my hand, squeezing it tightly.

"Oh, you don't have to, Lucy. Don't bother. Alan and you have done enough."

"I'll worry if I don't."

"Lucy…"

"It's not any trouble," I insisted.

"Get back to your business," he ordered as kindly as he could, patting my hand. "I don't want you to be reprimanded for assisting me. I'll be just fine, won't I, Doctor?"

"I'll never know if I can't examine you," the doctor said, with a sweeping chuckle. Now, I'm in the way, but Oliver…he still looks _so_ pale and although his behavior has somewhat returned, you can never too sure of what'll happen.

"Look—" I went for my watch to check the time, but searching my apron pockets, its' nowhere to be found. I groaned. I lost it!? I find that rather difficult to believe…unless someone stole it! No, _no_. It wasn't that nice of a pocket watch to begin with, it was just a pocket watch. No one in their right mind would steal it. Unless…I slapped my hand to my forehead…I must've forgotten it this morning when Alan felt the need to scare me half to death! I groaned, annoyed. "Oh, I must've misplaced my watch."

"Here," Oliver yawned, taking his watch from his trouser pocket, holding it out to me by the chain. "Take mine. Although." He swung the pocket watch about. "I don't think you checking up on me is necessary." I shook my head immediately, seeing the lovely craftsmanship of the watch and how much it must've cost him. I know for sure I'd lose it and I wouldn't be able to replace it.

"I can't do that!"

"Young lady," the doctor interjected, placing his stethoscope around his neck, "either take Oliver's watch or please, I must ask you to excuse us. I don't have all night." I went to argue, even though the doctor had been extremely kind to me, even when he should've been annoyed with me. Instead, I took Oliver's pocket watch and holding it between my fingers, the seasick man shooed me towards the door.

"Go on, go on," he laughed, "I can't have you unemployed!"

"I won't misplace it," I promised, "I'll keep a watchful eye on it."

"No worries," Oliver assured as the doctor placed the stethoscope buds into his ears.

"I'll be back in a few hours." I opened up the watch and read the time: Eight-thirty, give or take a few minutes. I snapped it shut. "Rest, Oliver!" I ordered as I left the doorway before reaching the suite's exit.

"And if I'm not, I'm sure I'll be corrected!" he boomed as I opened the door and shut it behind me. He better believe it!

I brushed sweat from my eyes before adjusting the bonnet on my head. I focused my eyes on the watch in my palm. I turned it over to see Oliver's initials engraved on it. Sighing, I placed it gingerly into my apron pocket. I brushed my hair from my eyes before beginning towards the elevator, not allowing my feet to drag. As much as I may not have wanted to go back to the kitchen, I continued on. The night has to end eventually.


	24. Another Belfast Trip

"Well, we'll see you tomorrow, for sure Alice!" one female voice cackled. I peeked from around the corner as the first-class members of Titanic stood and either were on their way back to their cabins or were off to the smoking room for brandy and cigars. Around me, waiters were preparing the proper trays of substance for the men. I let out a heavy sigh. The remaining kitchen staff, waiters and myself now have the task of clearing and cleaning the tables in preparation for yet another meal tomorrow. I just have to wait until everyone's gone.

"Brandy, gentlemen?" a male voice asked. There are just too many people in here for me to figure out who the speaker is and who may be responding.

"Of course, of course, John! And don't forget the cigars!" I exhaled once more, agitated that it takes so much time for them to merely stand from their chairs and get out of the dining hall. I just want to clear all of the clutter out so I can get some sleep—it's not as though I'm _allowed_ to leave. Even with Maureen nowhere in sight, I know, somewhere, out there in the middle of the crowd, she's watching the people under her command with close scrutiny. As if that's something new! I huffed. It's not, she's always watching. Why must everyone become ill at such inconvenient times?

As it was, dinner and its' many courses, however uneventful, was rather too difficult for my tastes. Come to think of it, I shouldn't even be involved! I wasn't hired for this! Kitchen duty is much more backbreaking than even tying corsets, and I thought _that_ was painful. I assume corset-tying is agonizing for both me and the passenger involved, but carrying dishes back and forth, as I did tonight, was even worse! I was wrong assuming that this would be easier than preparing the ladies for dinner, it may be _worse_. I need new employment.

"Aren't you tired, Natalie?" another female voice inquired. I know I am! That's the only sickness I, among with the others around me, may be suffering from: plain and simple exhaustion.

"Not so much, Mother," a younger voice replied, "but I may read for a while—" Why am I even listening? It's merely making me more frustrated and antsy! I stifled a yawn. I don't care where they go, as long as they don't go into the adjacent Reception Room. If they do, I'll have to serve them once more—when I should be in bed.

"How are they clearing out?" I turned to find Alan glancing around the corner at the first-class, his hopes now severely dashed. I shrugged, going back to my careful watch of the passengers.

"Never fast enough."

"Obviously." He let out a slight groan. "How much longer?"

"Oh, honestly, Alan." I shook my head at his impatience, even though I'm just as antsy as he is, even more so. "Give them a minute." Am I actually _defending_ these people, these people who, minus Oliver Bern and perhaps a few select others, have made my life a living Hell? What's gotten into me? I felt my forehead to make sure fever hadn't set in and thankfully, it hasn't.

"Are you feeling alright?" Alan wondered, concerned.

"Oh." I brushed him off. "I'm fine." Besides the fact that my mind may be playing tricks on me, making me feel as though I should have some sort of compassion for these first-class passengers, I think I'm alright. He stared at me, rather unconvinced.

"You don't look _fine_—To me, it seems you've caught whatever Oliver has—"

"Well, I haven't, so there's no need to worry."

"I'm not worried," he assured, "I just don't want to pick you up off the ground when that flu hits you."

"As if you would," I laughed, "what about that poor waiter in the kitchen? I can't depend on any of you, I'll be left out to die!"

"We took care of him!"

"It took you long enough!" I huffed.

"What matters if that we took care of him. It took some time, _true_, but now he's resting comfortably…" I groaned. How long, honestly, _how long_, does it take for these people to move out and go back to their cabins? I can't stand listening to Alan complain about them, but now I'm getting more frustrated. I don't know why we're forced to wait until everyone's disappeared, but that's what the regular kitchen staff informed us newcomers of, so I'm not going to question them. They seem to know what they're doing. After all, dinner and all of its' courses were fine, and no more mishaps took place after the beginning chaos. They must be doing something right!

We stood and waited, Alan and myself, before a few other bored and restless waiters joined us—for God knows how long, until only a few passengers remained near the dining room's entrance. It may have been a mere five minutes, but frankly, it felt much longer than that.

"Can I give the nod of approval, Luce?" Alan asked anxiously. I nodded. "Alright, the coast is clear!"

And off we went. It was like a race, honestly, that's what it felt like! We all went after the tables, practically taking everything: the silverware, the dishware, the linen napkins, the decorative flowers…we took everything except for the tablecloths, but I'm sure we'll have to go back for them if they're all as badly stained as the ones covering the tables I cleared. I really don't want to reminisce over how many times I lifted those large trays, or how many empty dishes and glasses I retrieved and returned to the kitchen for the proper cleaning. I'm just so tired, I think I could fall asleep standing up. I'm not sure what's come over me, since I know I didn't do half of my normal duties as a result of my library rendezvous, but—I'm still allowed to be sleepy! Aren't I?

"How are we doing?" I asked Alan in the kitchen as I placed another tray of dirty dishes near the sinks. His hands were full of what looked to be clean wine glasses and he was juggling them!

"Well, we're running late," he replied, practically shouting over the running water near us.

"Says who?" He shrugged.

"Everyone."

"Well, did anything break?" He shook his head, quickly handing some clean glasses to a passing co-worker. "Then, we're doing _wonderfully_." He smiled.

"Couldn't agree more." Out I went, back into the dining room to still see quite a few waiters cleaning up the first-class's mess. I went towards another table, gathered more dinner necessities and continued on.

I know I kept on cleaning for some time, until just about every dish, fork, spoon, and goblet had been retrieved, washed and put wherever they belong. What I find rather amusing, however, was the fact that once all of the dinner accessories were brought into the kitchen, practically everyone disappeared. And although Maureen was around before, she's out of sight, and for now, out of _my_ mind. The only people that remained stayed in the kitchen.

I think it's safe for me to leave. And if it's not…well, I'll be back here in the morning if everyone's still ill, so I'm not going to worry about it. I poked my head through the kitchen door, searching for Alan. I don't want him to think I fainted! Me, fainting! Ha!

"Alan?"

"Yeah?" He made his way towards the door and out he came.

"If you're all set down here, I'm going to bed." About to argue, I put a finger to his lips. "Anything can wait until the morning, I'm sure. The first-class ladies seem to be doing just fine without me, so you'll be okay, too."

"Well, I'm trying to scrounge up something to eat," he explained.

"Good for you." I stifled a small yawn. "I promised Oliver I'd check in on him before the night was out and after that, I'm done."

"I don't think that's very fair," he suddenly complained, brushing past me and back into the kitchen.

"What?" I turned and followed him, almost knocking over a waiter drying off dishes in the process. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, aggravated.

"You disappear for the day and now, you're going to bed! I'm still stuck here!"

"Alan," I began, "you're not _stuck_ here. You're making a sandwich."

"Still." He glanced over at me, raising an eyebrow of curiosity. "You can't leave," he decided, "since I don't even know where you were this afternoon and I want to know."

"I was trying to find a nice woman for Oliver to spend time with," I answered quickly. "Remember your idea?" He nodded, raising an eyebrow of curiosity.

"And…what happened?"

"He hated it. For good reason, of course." He took a bite of something or another, interested as he picked up a dinner plate. "Would you like me to elaborate?" He nodded, taking another large bite of his food, which looks to be a rather large sandwich. "I'm glad you're enjoying it," I laughed. "Well, I'll tell you tomorrow, I'm too tired now and I don't have the head—"

"No, no, don't go now!" He took my wrist so I couldn't leave. "I absolutely _want_ to know what happened," he argued, mouth full. "Just stay long enough to tell me. We'll find a table and sit." He gestured to the dining area as he began for the door, me beside him. He quickly walked towards the back of the hall and placed his plate down at a table not too far from where two stewards already sat, completely absorbed into their own conversation to even notice us. I pulled out a chair for myself and sat down beside Alan, who was already half-way through his meal. "You know—"

"You could've offered to get me something," I suggested, interrupting him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I." He stopped short, pointing to an uneaten half of his sandwich. "You want this?" I stared at it, wide-eyed, famished, but shook my head.

"No, it's yours." He rolled his eyes, sliding the plate towards me.

"Take it."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." I smiled, relieved. Now I don't have to make something for myself! "More importantly, tell me what happened with Oliver."

"Well." I took a bite of the sandwich and quickly chewing, swallowed. "I was trying to work this afternoon and there he was, the poor man, by himself in the library and I start talking to him, slowly bringing up the idea of introducing him to a nice woman as a dinner companion. He flat out refuses. I thought he wasn't giving the plan a chance, so I pressured him, probably too much, since he gives me his one reason for not agreeing to any such thing." I took another bite of my food.

"Which was?" Alan wondered in anticipation.

"Do you want the short version or the long version?" He didn't respond, continuing to eat himself. "Well, if you're that interested, I'll give you the long version after the fact, how's that?"

"That's fine," he mumbled, his mouth once again full of food, "I'm listening." I straightened out my skirt, letting out a long sigh before clearing my throat to continue.

"Basically, he had met the girl of his dreams some time ago, and they were to be married. Then, out of nowhere, the girl never returns his letters, he travels to see her and she's gone. She ran off and marries someone else!" I slammed my hand down onto the table for emphasis and Alan let out a surprised gasp, practically beginning to choke. I slapped him on the back once or twice as he coughed. "Are you alright?" He nodded, clearing his throat once or twice before undoing his tie and the first two buttons of his shirt. "Do you want me to get you water?" I offered.

"Not when there's water here." I huffed, realizing I had missed a table, for a pitcher of water and a half-filled glass sat a few feet away from us. I can never quite do anything right, can I? I quickly took the glass and handed it to him. He took a sip, shaking his head. "I really want to hear what happened with Oliver, though!"

"I just told you!" I laughed. "She went off and got married to another man, leaving Oliver in the dust." Alan whistled lowly, shaking his head in shame. "Now, isn't that just awful?"

"And we thought he was lonely."

"He _is_, but he _wants_ to be left alone." I sighed. "It was all so romantic, too, and it was all ruined for him. I was hoping it was going to all come together by the end."

"How did they meet, anyway?"

"On a train during the summer…and they spent every holiday with each other…" I sighed dreamily. "Or something like that." I cleared my throat, forcing myself back into reality. Well, my reality, anyway. "I don't remember the specifics. But, I suppose he's as happy as he can be. He was married anyway, but his wife, she recently passed away." I placed my head in my palm. "But, that's how I spent my afternoon. How was yours?"

"Just _lovely_," he replied, thick with sarcasm. "Besides the fact that I was looking for you, I had some trouble with a first-class passenger who shall remain nameless—"

"What was his problem?"

"_Her_ problem, you mean?" I nodded, rather surprised to hear he had to associate himself with the opposite sex. "I don't know, she was complaining about something or other, I wasn't actually listening and I told her to talk to someone else, that I was trying to do something, but she wouldn't give up. I wanted to wring her neck!"

"Are you discussing Mrs. Chaffee?" a voice inquired. Alan and I turned our heads to find the voice, only to realize it was one of the two stewards who had been chatting when we first sat down, the other having evaporated into thin air. "Her full name's Carrie Chaffee."

"I'm not sure," Alan replied.

"Older woman," the steward described, standing, "maybe late fifties, married, dark black hair all done up in a bun…" Well, that describes every woman on board, especially when discussing the first-class women. They're not fashion-forward by any means, I think they enjoy imitating one another. "But, she's wretched," he explained, walking towards our table, "her and her husband, oh, they fight like cats!"

"Have you seen it?" I asked, curious.

"Well, I'm a dining-saloon servant, as you can may tell." He gestured to his uniform. "But they go at each other, especially at dinner!" He forced a laugh, holding out his hand. "I'm James, by the way," he introduced. Alan shook his hand, as did I.

"Alan."

"Lucy."

"Mind if I sit?" We both shook our heads. I don't mind one bit, I'd love to hear about a rude first-class woman! They're not all rude, but I'm definitely staying up to hear this! "What did she do to you?" he asked Alan.

"I'd rather not relive it." Well, isn't that surprising? Alan usually enjoys talking!

"What'd she do to _you_?" I asked James.

"Nothing, thank God," James replied. "But, she threw a few dinner rolls at her husband the first night aboard, after I told her that we were out of a specific kind of champagne she requested. He said something in response, she got angry, and she plummeted him with a few rolls. I went to look for the champagne and turns out, we never had it on board to begin with!" I began to laugh, just picturing the scene. "Come to think of it, until that night, I'd never even heard of it!"

"Why does it seem like either a person is too kind or just plain awful?" I asked them both, leaning back into my chair. "Isn't there a balance?"

"When you've got as much money as them," Alan began, "you can act however you want."

"That's the truth," James agreed.

"I think it's shameful. It doesn't matter how wealthy you are, a thank-you once in a while would be wonderful." I stopped myself. "Don't you think?" Both men nodded.

"As long as I've been employed on ships—" He stopped short as a sort of crunching sound, under our feet, rushed to our ears. I listened close as the ground shook and what felt like a shudder vibrated across the room, shaking the glass and plate on the table in front of us. Strangely, it's over! It had stopped just as quickly as it had begun.

"That was odd," I stated, glancing around.

"Felt like a propeller blade dropping," James assumed out loud, unconcerned. "It's happened before, it's nothing too serious." He shrugged a shoulder, before a wide smile appeared across his face.

"_What_?" Alan asked, a little shaken from the unfamiliar clamor. "Why are you smiling?"

"A fallen propeller means we're probably going to have to go back to Belfast." Alan suddenly nodded, comprehending what this could possibly entail.

"I've heard about this before," Alan blurted, "but it's never happened to me—"

"Oh, it'll be great!" James exclaimed. "We'll get to go to port and—"

"What's so great about that?" I interrupted. "We'll have to stop." Their excitement didn't dwindle by my obvious lack of enthusiasm.

"Lucy, it's _Belfast_." Alan emphasized on the word as if it should hold more meaning than it did. I'm unconvinced. "It's Belfast!"

"It doesn't matter how many time you say it, Alan…" I stopped myself, knowing whatever I wanted to say wouldn't matter to them. This trip has been murder as it is, why would I want to spend more time on Titanic than absolutely necessary? I took a final bite of my sandwich as both men let out a whooping cheer.

"It couldn't have been planned better!" Alan cried. I slapped my hand to my forehead, frustrated, as they stood, thrusting their fists triumphantly into the air. Am I the only one to realize that if we have to stop, we won't get paid on time? I must be, for they cheered once more, applauding Titanic and all of her crew.

"Another Belfast trip!"


	25. Just a Little Unwell

"I'm surrounded by morons," I groaned, shaking my head. Neither Alan or James acknowledged me, and I can't be sure if they heard me or not, since they were too busy cheering. Am I being ignored? I don't particularly like the feeling, and I absolutely am not going to ignored when money is concerned. "Do you realize something?" I asked as Alan returned to his seat beside me.

"Realize what?" James asked, pulling in his chair before sitting down.

"If we go to Belfast—"

"Oh, it'll be grand!" Alan interrupted.

"No." I put a hand to his mouth, much too tired to listen to his cheering for one second longer. "Don't tell me how wonderful it'll be, Alan. _Listen_ for a change, would you?" He hesitated, but nodded in compliance, anyway. "Okay, then." I dropped my hand from his face. "If we're forced back to Belfast, like James said, we won't be given our paychecks. And if we're not given our paychecks, we won't be getting _paid_." I watched Alan as the information sunk in and once it did, his eyes widened.

"Damn it," he whined, "you're right, Luce." I glanced over at James, who shook his head sadly.

"What a shame," he sighed, "it was a brilliant idea."

"It really was," Alan agreed, "and then Lucy has to go and ruin it all for us." I huffed. How dare he say that! He winked at me, though, nudging me in the ribs. "Just kidding."

"And now that I've killed your joy, I have to be getting to bed." I stood, giggling slightly. The looks on their faces are just priceless—they look as if the wind has just been knocked out of them! "It was nice to meet you, though, James," I added, with a small yawn.

As it is, I promised Oliver I'd check in on him. And I don't care how unconcerned he was about it, I have to go now, just for my own sake. I won't be able to sleep unless I make sure he's content. To find his room, check in on him and then make my way down to my own cabin's going to take some time. It's already late.

"And where are you running off to?" James wondered.

"Not anywhere fun, I assure you. I'm going to bed."

"Oh, stay!" I've already killed their glee about having to go all the way back to Belfast, must I ruin it any more?

"No, no, I wish I could." Well, there's a lie. I wish I was in bed! Actually, I wish someone would _carry_ me to bed! That's truthful. "I'm sure I'll have to be up early tomorrow," I added as an afterthought. James nodded in understanding.

"I'll see you then, I'm sure," he replied. "Especially if the illness hasn't passed by morning, we'll definitely need everyone back." I forced a smile.

"I'm sure!"

"You should stay," Alan stated, with a smile, "you don't completely kill the fun, you know."

"Oh, I know," I said, "but I'm exhausted."

"Well, if you're sure…?" I nodded.

"I'm positive. I'll see you both in the morning. Good-night, gentlemen." With a tilt of my head, I turned on my heel and began for the exit. Now, if I just hurry, I can get to bed without too much of a problem, and if I'm extremely lucky, perhaps before midnight. Am I asking for too much? Well, I think I just might be!

I turned a corner and stopped short. I couldn't help _but_ stop. Surprisingly, I see most of the first-class stateroom doors wide open, with the rooms' occupants standing out on the hallway's carpeting. Most were talking amongst themselves, while some spoke with stewards…rather calm stewards, considering the looks on the passengers' faces. They can't seriously be all up and upset about that propeller dropping…can they?

"We've thrown a propeller," I listened to one steward explain to a startled-looking first-class man, "that's the noise you heard, but no worries, sir."

Oh, that _is_ what they're up for! Now what am I to? I don't want to be questioned as to what the ruckus was. It's only going to remind me of my horrible luck. Of all ships, honestly, why this one? Why must I be aboard a ship that loses propellers as if it was nothing?

To keep passengers from inquiring, I took off my standard bonnet, stuffing it into my sleeve before I continued on toward Oliver's room. Of course, the one change in my wardrobe didn't help me whatsoever as I brushed past first-class men and women dressed in their night best. I don't know why I even thought that would help me.

I was bombarded with questions such as:

"What was that ruckus all about?"

"Why did it happen?"

"What should we do?"

Do I look like a sailor? I don't know _why_ the propeller dropped! And that last question I couldn't answer without being extremely rude, but I really did try my best to answer every inquiry charged at me. There were maybe three other stewards crowding the hallway, answering questions as politely as they could, so I just followed suit. I may be a bad person for not answering in complete sentences, but I'm exhausted, so I sent every question to a steward nearby, pointing them in the proper direction to get their answers. As if I have the patience for this! Just because I made an appearance doesn't mean I know as much as the other stewards around me. I know just as much as they do, probably even less. I don't have the details these passengers expect.

For God's sake, everyone's getting worked up over a propeller! A _propeller_! If I didn't know any better, I'd think the sky was falling.

And although it's part of my employment to care, I'm just too exhausted to. As it is, I promised Oliver I'd come to check on him and I had to fight my body to even do _that_.

As I passed through the small gathering, I also heard questions of wonder as to why the ship had stopped its' movement. And I know they're right; Titanic had stopped moving some time after the propeller had fallen. I shrugged it off. It's still nothing to cause this much concern. They ought to count their money if they need to worry about something.

I began to check room numbers when I came to another corner, attempting to recall in my memory precisely _where _his room was. I know there was a B in the room's number…which means. I groaned. It's down a deck. I'm only on A Deck, I need to be on B! It's no wonder I can't find him, his stateroom's the next level down. I turned to my right and made my way down a flight of stairs. When I descended and traveled a bit more, I soon recognized the room number and of course, the infamous letter. His room. I let out a small breath of relief as I went towards the door. At least I found it!

I reached my arm up to knock when an odd sound at my feet stopped me. I glanced down to see Oliver's expensive pocket watch, the one he had let me borrow, on the carpet beside my feet, hanging open. I panicked.

How did it jump out of my pocket to begin with!? I quickly picked the watch up and brushed it off, polishing the shiny surface with my apron. I glanced at the back and his initials were as present as ever. I released a heavy breath of relief, grateful it hadn't been seriously damaged. I turned it over to examine the face only to see the time. Midnight. I sighed, shaking my head. I can't just knock and check in—I thought it was much earlier than midnight. I shut the watch and placed it gently back into my apron pocket. I probably should just let him be…

"Oh, thank goodness!" a voice stopped me short and I turned to see a stewardess, much older than myself, hurrying down the corridor with a silver tray in her arms. "Please tell me you're not busy—"

"Well, I—" I gestured to Oliver's door.

"Here."

"But—" I couldn't say another word. She quickly handed me the tray, which held a steaming pot of water and matching saucers, before adjusting her skirts. She looked rather tired, as I'm sure I look, and frayed, her patience at the breaking point. Her eyes, I'm sure like mine, were bloodshot and she withheld a yawn.

"Please," she begged, "just, just take care of him."

"_Him_?" Who was she talking about?

"Mr. Bern." He requested tea and now there seems to be a rather big hubbub, and now Ms. Kexington needs assistance and—" She inhaled quickly. "If you're here, though, and willing…"

"He's awake, then?" I assumed, interrupting what I guess was about to be a rather lengthy speech. She nodded. I thought he'd be asleep by now, truth be told.

"Absolutely." She brushed past me and then, suddenly, she stopped short to turn back. "You don't mind, do you?" She didn't sound as though she meant it, she expected me to take care of the tea situation, but I answered her anyway.

"No, of course. If Ms. Kexington needs you, she needs you." I gestured down the hall. "Go right ahead." As long as she doesn't want me, I could care less! As much as I hate tea—I really, truly do—I'd rather serve it than deal with Maureen any day.

"Well, you're a dear, aren't you?" She didn't wait for me to reply. "I do appreciate it. Thank you." She turned once again and disappeared down the passageway.

I turned back to Oliver's door and with a small sigh, turned the knob. It opened without a creak and I took a step into the sitting room. I shut the door behind me and glanced around, attempting to find any one object I recognized as Oliver's and only Oliver's. But, I couldn't find a single keepsake. Just as well.

"Theresa?" I recognized Oliver's lovely tone and slowly began to follow the echo. "I do appreciate your timely fashion, I truly do—"

"No," I called, "it's Lucy!" I peeked my head into the bedroom before stepping in. Saying his name made me smile, even this late! How is that possible? I quickly placed the tea down onto a nearby table. "Theresa was in a rush and asked me to bring your tea in for you." I poured the warm water into one of the two saucers before I dunked the tea bag into it. "I hope it's not too much of a problem."

"Oh, Lucy, my dear," he began, clicking his tongue, "I told you not to worry about me."

"But, here I am." I turned to him, then. He was still presumably in bed, as I expected him to be, but his skin didn't have that same sickly, gray color it had when I last saw him. He actually looks worse! His cheeks, rather flushed, make it seem like he may have a temperature, while the rest of his face now looked a shade of green. If I didn't know any better, I'd also say he was trembling. I forced myself to hold in a surprised gasp.

How could he have possibly gotten this bad, this soon? He looks absolutely _horrible_! It's not as though I saw him days ago—it was only a few hours and now, he's worse than ever! This isn't even logical! I rushed to his side and felt his forehead.

"You're burning up," I decided as his skin simmered under my hand. I felt like I had my hand on a radiator!

"Oh, it's not so bad," he replied hoarsely. And with a bit of a struggle, he pushed my hand away. "Just seasickness."

"Oliver, you—" He couldn't possibly be seasick! I'm sure I would've heard, somewhere, from someone, _anyone_, if seasickness caused fevers. Maybe I'm not as well informed as I think I am, but what I do know is this: he looks awful. "This can't be seasickness, I know I…"

"Lucy," he interrupted, in an unusually harsh tone, "I've been around long enough to tell you what I have. This is what usually happens. It always gets worse before it gets better." He smiled. "There's no need to worry, my dear." How can I _not_ worry!? Just look at him!

"What did the doctor say?" I asked, clearing my throat, attempting to keep my voice even. I have a good mind to wake that doctor up and make him examine Oliver again!

Was there a secret pact I was unaware of? And was this pact one that consisted of fooling the stewardess until she left and then shaking hands as if that solved all the world's problems, without even the proper medical examination? I don't understand!

"It doesn't matter what the doctor said," he stated, "he gave me what he could." Of course it matters what he said! I should've stayed here when he came, I know that now. I released a tense breath, rubbing my suddenly pounding head. No matter what that doctor said, I should've stayed, even if it was just in the sitting room. I then could've at least made sure he was properly taken care of.

"What did he give you?" He pointed to his bedside table, where two small glass bottles sat next to one another, a spoon between them. I picked up one bottle that had a green tint to it and attempted to read the label. I don't have any type of medical training—that said, I do know the English language, and I can't even pronounce the name of the liquid in my hand! For all I know, it's not even medicine. "And that's all?" I wondered aloud, placing the bottle back in its' proper place. "That's it?"

"There's only so much that can be done for _seasickness_."

"Well," I huffed, "there's always something we _can_ do—" I went to reach for the service bell, one that alerted a steward if a passenger needed assistance, when he took me by the wrist and with a small chuckle, shook his head.

"We're not waking him up," he said, utterly calm, "if that's what you're thinking. He's a rather nice man, but I suspect he enjoys his sleep just like the rest of us."

"But, Oliver—"

"Now, now, Lucy," he scolded, "it's alright." He patted my hand before releasing it, as if I was the one ill and he was comforting me, rather than the other way around. "After a good night's rest, I'll feel like a new man." But, with all of the medical advances today, you'd think there'd be a proven remedy for this! I've never seen anything like it in my life.

"But, Oliver, you look _horrible_." I pressed my hand to his reddened face. "I did tell you that some kind of illness was spreading aboard, didn't I? Perhaps it's not seasickness after all, maybe it's that." I put my palm back to his forehead. "Does anything hurt? Is there anything I could get you?"

"My dear Lucy, the fact that you care makes me feel even better than I did minutes ago." Well, of course I care! How could I not? I tried to smile, but I'm afraid it didn't show the way I wanted it to—I think I'm just too sleep-deprived.

And yet, even with this boring down on him, seasickness or whatever it may be, he still must've sensed my worry, for he took my hand and squeezed it.

"It's alright," he assured. "I would like my tea, though, that would be lovely." I released a tense breath. How could I have forgotten about the tea?

"Of course." I turned from him and went back to the small table. I went to pick up the cup when I realized it was still warm…and not cold. The one man who enjoys tea the same way I do, how could I forget? "It's not cold," I realized aloud, with a heavy sigh. Of course, I left Alan, my master cold-tea maker, back in the first-class, but…

"Just let it sit for a few minutes, it'll be cold by then."

"It won't be like how you had it before," I warned over my shoulder.

"I think I'll survive." I could tell from his tone that he was smiling. "I can wait. But, you, young lady, you don't have to stay here and watch it turn cold." I didn't respond. "Lucy?" I turned back to him.

"Oh, I know," I said, with a small smile, "I don't mind."

"You must be tired," he mused lightly. Exhausted and overworked is more like it. "Am I right?"

"No, I'm perfect, actually." He didn't say another word for a moment or so, but then cleared his throat.

"Would you do me a favor, then?" I nodded.

"Of course."

"I'm awfully chilly. I think it may just be me, but if you could possibly find me an extra blanket…" I put up my hand to stop him.

"Say no more." I scurried across the large bedroom to the closet and took a step in. I know blankets are usually stocked around here, somewhere…I just have to find them first. I rummaged through the few suits Oliver had hanging up, looking down at the shoe rack positioned on the floor underneath the clothes, but, alas, no blanket. I can't say I expected one to be there!

I stood on my tiptoes and looked up over the clothes railing. Ah-ha! Hidden in the corner of the closet, there sat an extra blanket! I stayed on my tiptoes as I reached for it. I struggled once or twice, my fingers just missing the scratchy edge of the beige throw, but on my fourth try I was able to grip it and I pulled it down with all of my might.

"Here we are!" I declared happily, unfolding it as I made my way back towards him. "This should do the trick." I shook it once to unfold it completely and I lifted it to place onto the bed. I adjusted the edges and folded down the top where the beige sheet almost completely covered Oliver's face. "Is this alright?"

"It's wonderful, thank you."

"Your pillows okay, too? Would you like to sit up more or…?"

"No, no, I think I'll be just fine now." He released a breath as I stood there, fidgeting. I can't tell if he's as _fine_ as he says he is. I eyed that bell, struggling to keep myself from pressing it, when he spoke. "Oh," he exhaled, "you're much too kind to me, Lucy."

"Well, you've been even kinder to me."

"You must have a lot of other passengers to worry about," he assumed.

"Not this late." I pulled up a chair from the table where the tea tray sat and adjusted my dress. In truth, tonight has been so chaotic, if someone's needs weren't meant, it's not completely my fault—for a change! "Not this late," I repeated tiredly, rubbing my eyes.

"You know, I really wish I had known you when you were younger." Well, _that_ came out of absolutely nowhere.

"Oh, really?" I asked, unsure if I really wanted him to continue or not. I fiddled with my apron, also doubtful if I should look at him. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, in actuality, I wish I had met you when I was just a bit younger, even by a few years." He chuckled. "I was younger then, as you can tell."

"So was I."

"Precisely—it would've been marvelous, wouldn't you say?" He's talking absolutely crazy! When I glanced up at him, he had a rather large smile across his face. There's something wrong, I just know it. I pulled my chair closer to him, checking his forehead once more for a temperature. "Oh, don't bother yourself, I'm just fine," he mumbled, waving my hand away once more. I can't be so sure.

"I suppose it would've been wonderful," I agreed softly, my hand dropping back onto my lap. I don't know whether to let him keep talking or to just press that bell for assistance.

"When you get older, you become a different person, but not you. No, not you—you, you're so wonderful, Lucille. And I think you always will be." I forced my eyes down. "Don't be bashful about it, it's a very redeeming trait." He smiled. "Now, that Theresa, if only she had been as kind as you—"

"Oh, well…" I allowed my voice to trail off. Why am I defending an employee, especially one who threw her tray at me? I don't know her from a hole in the wall!

"Why my fellow colleagues treat you as…"

"Oh, that doesn't matter," I interrupted, with a small shrug, "you should rest now, anyhow."

"Nonsense," he argued. "It _does_ matter."

"Not now it doesn't."

"Of course," he continued, as if he had never heard me, "it does help a great deal that you had such a wonderful mother and father." If he only knew. "If Theresa had the proper raising—then again, your mother, she did a lovely job of raising you, Lucille, there may not be hope for any other girl—"

"She'd be very glad to hear that." I'm lost. I bit on my lower lip, wondering if I should just go along with him or not. It doesn't seem right if I do! What if his small fever is effecting his thinking? Or is he just talking _without _thinking? But maybe he's completely lost his mind…I think I may have, too.

"And I do mean it," he continued, "for you to be so lovely to a crabby old man like me—"

"Oh, Oliver!" I exclaimed, laughing. "You're talking crazy."

"Am I talking in circles again?" I didn't respond as he placed a hand to his head. "Ah, well, it must be the motion of this ship—It can make my head spin and it's always when you least expect it." I don't know what else to do, so I just nodded, even though his eyes were closed. I know he can't even see me, why do I bother?

"I wonder if that tea's cold yet," I murmured, standing. On top of it all, I also don't know what else to say. He didn't respond, and released a heavy breath as I held the cup in my hand. Lukewarm, not freezing yet. "I could always bring it outside for a few minutes," I joked, placing it down onto its' saucer. "That would make it nice and cold!"

"I don't think tea is the best idea," he suddenly decided.

"No?" He groaned.

"No. I am sorry, Lucy."

"Oh, that's not a problem." I wracked my brain for other options. "There's water, or…oh, how about some crackers? Or are you feeling queasy?" It was only after a few seconds of uneasy silence, that uneasy feeling belonging to me, that he spoke again.

"I'm feeling a tad bit tired now," he admitted, "_too _tired."

"I'll go," I offered, "and I'll come back in a few hours to check on you."

"No, no, Lucille," he murmured, "it's much too late for that; you need rest, too."

"It's not an issue whatsoever," I assured, "I can get—"

"As it is," he sighed, "I didn't expect to see you back tonight." But, I told him I would! I wasn't going to forget, no matter how sleepy I happen to be. "I don't want to cause any problems for you, Lucy, you know that, don't you?"

"You're not." I sat down beside him. "_I_ wanted to make sure you were alright." I came back on my own merit. He didn't force me—if anything, he told me not to bother! "You're just overtired now, that's all." I think I may be making him even more exhausted than necessary by sitting here and talking, but… "Are you comfortable?" He nodded. "If you're still not feeling better by the morning, I have to insist that the doctor comes to take another look at you."

"As I said, I'm sure it'll pass by morning." He sounds so certain. He opened one of his eyes and inspecting my expression, nodded. "It will," he assured.

"Well, if not…"

"We'll bother him then." I smiled at the thought.

"Alright," I agreed, standing. I can't argue with him, I know. Even with a full night of sleep on my side, I don't think I'd win this argument. "Until then."


	26. There's a Drill?

I felt uneasy as I left Oliver's room. I'm not sure how else to describe it, but leaving him there just didn't feel right.

What am I going to do about him? I bit my lower lip as I began my walk up the corridor. I always could call the doctor again. I really feel like I should—even though Oliver asked me not to. Even if I decided to go against his wishes, he'd know it was me. But…He just seemed to be acting so oddly, not like himself…but maybe it…perhaps the doctor—No, no…it wasn't what the doctor gave him. I wouldn't believe that even if it was true. The doctor did what he could, right? Right.

Either way, something about Oliver was out of place, and I just can't seem to put my finger on it.

I released a tired sigh. Even though I _want_ to, I don't know what else I _could_ do to help him. I'm not much good to anyone now, I'm just too sleepy.

I began to hear some chattering ahead of me and I glanced up from my feet. More people, dressed in bathrobes and night clothes, cluttered the hallways. Only one passenger in the group was dressed in an overcoat, as if he had just returned from dinner. They must be discussing the noise from earlier, but I couldn't make out what they were saying—not that I actually _want_ to. They can be curious all night. It doesn't matter to me; I am _not_ involved.

I made my way down a set of stairs to C Deck and saw a few stewards lumbering past yet more questioning passengers. And while the first-class were either talking to other stewards or amongst themselves, I saw a few more dressed and not in their nightwear. Even stranger, I even saw two or three women donned up in lifejackets, over their long coats!

I don't understand. _Lifejackets_? Why in the Hell would someone need a lifebelt right now? It's much too late to do this, I know it. It's not as if anyone _needs _them!

I turned a corner and I could see yet more stewards, them looking as if they had just rolled out of bed, handing out lifejackets to passengers before continuing on their merry way.

As if it couldn't get any more bizarre, a lot of the rooms were empty. Some of them had their doors wide open! As I walked past, I sneaked a peek inside to not find a soul. And if that's not odd, I don't know what is anymore. What's going on, more importantly?

"Hey!" I skidded up the aisle as the steward I addressed excused himself from an older gentleman. "Do you know what's going on?" I asked.

He gestured to the three lifebelts in his grasp. "We're passing out the lifebelts." Oh, he's a bright one.

"Yes, I can _see _that—" Do I look like a complete moron? "But, _why_?"

"We're doing a lifeboat drill."

"A drill?" Whatever for? "Why? If there's a drill, I wasn't—"

"Miss," he interrupted, swerving around me, "All I know is I'm supposed to pass these out and get the passengers up on deck. Ms. Kexington's orders, you know."

Well, there we are. That sounds about right, now doesn't it? Somehow I had a feeling she might be involved. Only Maureen could think up this concoction of an idea this late at night!

"Excuse me," he requested, and before I could utter another word, he was out of sight.

I don't understand! Maureen! Oh, she's such a kill-joy. And once again, there she goes, making the lives of all who work for this company miserable. But, but a lifeboat drill? What am I supposed to _do_ when one of those is called, anyway?

"Just _what_ are you doing, Lucille?"

I cringed. Speak of the Devil. Oh, no. I stopped cold, almost feeling her breathing down my neck, and forced my body to turn to her. Now more than ever I could feel myself getting ready for flight.

"Ma'am," I acknowledged. I went to fidget with my bonnet, when I realized it was still missing from my head! I struggled to find it and retrieved it from my pocket before placing it on top of my head. I don't want to be reprimanded for that! "I—"

"Where have you been?" she asked, her tone unusually harsh.

"Serving tea to—" I gestured over my shoulder, as if that could explain everything.

"Well, never mind that now. I need you to begin the evacuation procedure."

My mind went blank. _Evacuation procedure_? What? What is she even talking about!?

"The lifeboat procedure," she added for clarification.

That is, in so many words, exactly what that steward had just told me and yet, I'm still puzzled.

"The one everyone around us seems to be following except for you?"

"The lifeboat procedure," I repeated, attempting to sound confident.

"Yes, Lucille, the drill." She held out her hand then, beginning to list what needed to be done on her fingertips. "I need you to wake the rest of the staff, have them direct the passengers to dress warmly, make sure they get everyone up to the Boat Deck, inform them of what's happened—"

I kind of remember that from the regulations handbook.

"But—"

"When the high offices ask me to make sure all of the passengers are in their lifebelts and up on the Boat Deck, it gets done."

I don't know what to expect anymore, when dealing with my employer. She makes everything seem on the verge of breaking—with me on the verge of heart failure.

"I don't take this sort of situation lightly," she snapped harshly, "and neither should you."

"Of course, ma'am."

What was she talking about, a situation? I'm sorry, but a fallen propeller doesn't constitute a state of emergency to me. Why would we be doing all of this for one dumb propeller? James didn't seem concerned, not in the least, and he didn't mention this possibly happening. Then again, he was too busy cheering at the Belfast prospect…

"Lucille," she stated, forcing me from my thoughts, "do you have _any_ idea of what I'm talking about?"

The confusion on my face must be that obvious.

"No, ma'am," I mumbled, embarrassed.

"No one told you of the collision with the iceberg?"

_Iceberg_? Has she lost her mind!?

"An iceberg," I repeated. I shook my head. No, no, no. The propeller dropped, it wasn't ice! "An iceberg?"

She seemed unfazed, certain of the information she had received from who knows where. She stood before me, hands on her hips, confident that the word 'iceberg' was written clearly across her forehead. "Of course."

But, what she's saying doesn't makes any sense at all! An iceberg…? But…

"That noise, then…" My voice trailed off as she nodded. But, that was just a propeller, it wasn't ice! I wanted to say this to her, by but by the look on her face, she seemed too certain. "That was an _iceberg_…Ms. Kexington?"

"_Yes_, Lucille," she sighed, exasperated, "that's what it was."

"Oh."

And she stood there with me, as I waited for her to say something else. I waited for her to smile, to say she was kidding, but then I remembered who I was dealing with. This is Maureen Kexington. She doesn't joke, especially about a supposed iceberg. She's serious, and the cold, dead look in her eyes—even though that's how she usually looks—confirmed it. She was very serious, even if I still can't wrap my head around it.

"Honestly, Lucille!" she exclaimed, as she threw her arms into the air, "are you or are you not employed on this liner?"

"Yes, I am." A pause. "Ma'am," I added. At least, I think I'm still employed, after all this time.

"The higher offices are requesting this, so please, Lucille." She exhaled. "_Please_," she begged, "do as you're told. I don't think I'm asking for too much, am I?"

This late, she is.

"The lifeboat procedure, yes…yes ma'am."

"Fantastic."

She went to walk past me when I took her by the arm. Why did I just do that!? "Ms. Kexington?" I dropped her arm immediately.

"Yes…?"

I didn't even have to wonder how annoyed she was.

"How serious? Are we…" The word in my head sounded strange to say, for the mere thought of it sent shivers up my spine. Water. No. Anything but water.

Before I could utter what I wanted to, she shrugged a bulky shoulder, as if none of it truly mattered. She enjoys shouting and making a fuss, that's what her expression read to me. "Nothing to be concerned about."

If that's the most reassurance she can offer, I'm taking it!

"Just a bit of water, Lucille," she continued, "it's not the end of the world. I expect this all to be resolved shortly." Any comfort in her words disappeared when she added, in her usual tone that reeked of agitation, "Now do as you're told."

"Of course, ma'am." I brushed hair from my eyes, completely unsure of what she wanted of me as she hurried down the hallway. That's not so unusual for me, I never quite know what she wants, but an iceberg, that's…that's _very_ interesting…to say the least.

Well, fine, then. I can rally up the rest of the stewards who aren't doing what they're supposed to, get every passenger into a lifejacket, put them into a boat, and then—_what_?

What are we supposed to do, then? Load everyone back on board once the proper people look at any damage this _iceberg_ may have caused…? It doesn't seem to add up to me, but I suppose until I hear differently, I might as well do as I'm asked. I sighed. It's not as though I have a choice.

I'm sure no one will appreciate being woken up about this, since it's pure stupidity, but I don't make the rules. More importantly, I have to ignore any complaints I happen to hear. And I'm sure I'll hear 'em! This late at night for a drill, above all things!

And I guess now if a passenger asks about that noise, I can't ignore them. But in truth, I hadn't necessarily _ignored _them, I had just re-directed them to other crew members. But if Maureen had already gotten to them, they knew what to do. And if they didn't know, now I do, so I can right any wrongs. Right? Right.

As I rushed down another set of stairs, to find it a bit more chaotic, with more people whirling past me, I know waking anyone else up, as if _any one_ could possibly have slept through this, is going to be difficult. And I'm not looking forward to it.


	27. Listen to Me

"Please dress warmly!" I called down the aisle, taking a right into an already open, empty suite. Any lifejackets left? I went for the closet, and sure enough, I pulled down two lifebelts. I quickly exited, passing a group of first-class gentleman chatting.

"Gentlemen, if you could please make your way to the boat deck, it'd be greatly appreciated," I explained, handing a middle-aged man dressed to the nines one of the lifejackets I had just found.

"Oh, well, Miss, thank you," he said sincerely, tipping what looked to be a glass of liquor in my direction.

I forced a smile, gesturing to the way outdoors. "Boat Deck," I repeated, as if that would make a difference.

"It's certainly a lot of noise for just a tiny iceberg!" one laughed.

"You'd think they'd never seen ice before," another commented.

"Captain's Orders," I added for extra measure, however false that little fact may be. I thought if I threw in someone of authority into the conversation, they would listen, but it didn't seem to matter either way. They continued to chatter, discussing how large this iceberg was and all of that, as I glanced around once more.

I continued on, slowly but surely making progress. I checked every room on the floor to the best of my ability, knocking on some doors that were still occupied.

Everyone, at least _almost_ everyone, answered me when I knocked. I quickly informed them of what had happened and of what needed to be done. Most were rather civil, surprisingly enough, but I've learned to take that with a grain of salt. It was so late, no one seemed to know what they were doing!

And that also included the new stewards that had just come into my view. Some of them were making their way towards me from stairs not too far off. Most of them looked as if they had just rolled out of bed!

They stayed together in a confused ball, until I made the rational decision to tell them what to do. I couldn't believe it, but I got myself _involved_. I split them up down this corridor or that corridor—all orders I'm sure Maureen would be giving…if she was around.

It's lovely how she initiated all of this, forced us to stay up without even a cup of coffee, and now she's gone missing!

And the worst part!? _I'm_ giving out the instructions! What was the world coming to, anyway!?

"Make sure everyone's bundled up," I explained to the ones who looked the most puzzled, "we're running a lifeboat drill—we've hit an iceberg, and it's the high office's orders."

Either way, it didn't seem to matter what I said, they stared at me, their jaws practically hung open. No one objected or questioned to what I was saying. I could've said the entire ship was on fire, and I would've received the same glossy-eyed, half-exhausted expression. I handed them lifejackets to pass out from the unoccupied rooms I had already found.

"Please, don't forget to knock!"

And they scattered.

When I was sure I was in second class territory, I began to knock lightly on doors before opening them. I tried not to be as rough as the other stewards around me, but I'm afraid I came off rather rude and hasty—but…in my own defense, this is a rather big job to tackle.

"Please, dress warmly—the Boat Deck's rather chilly!" I called, but I can't be sure if anyone heard me. It didn't stop me from yelling, because as I descended deeper into the ship, it seemed like more people were up and about, most without lifejackets--many ended up being stewards I had to tell what to do.

Take for instance, this young crew member I'm going towards.

"No, no," I began, realizing that he's even younger than me, and also like me, on the verge of a nervous collapse. "Just tell them to put on their lifebelts and make their way to the boat deck, alright?"

His eyes brightened as I placed two lifejackets into his grip. "Oh, _thank you_, Miss," he stumbled out, practically tripping over his feet amongst the chaos. "I do appreciate it!"

I smiled.

Under normal circumstances, Maureen would've had her instructions understood—When she wants something done, it gets done. But I'm glad for this steward's sake she's still nowhere to be found. If he should see Maureen coming towards him, he'd probably go into heart failure!

I brushed past an older woman gripping a young boy's hand, and as I did so, I felt my foot slip underneath the carpeting. I tumbled, almost falling over a suitcase.

A _suitcase_?

I scanned around me and sure enough, down the hall, I could see more trunks hanging out of room doorways. I don't understand it. We're not leaving any time soon! One silly lifeboat drill, and everyone's acting as though it's the end of the world.

It still seemed like, as I instructed travelers to dress warmly, they'd look at me as if I had three heads! Some even went back into the cabins, acting like I was making a mountain out of a molehill or making it up entirely! But, really, what was there not to believe? There would be no reason to lie about an iceberg—In truth, no one, especially _me_, has anything to gain from waking up all the passengers and forcing them out of their beds to stand on the Boat Deck for who knows how long. And to be honest, I'd much rather be asleep right now!

I continued on my tour, quickening my pace to effectively zigzag my way through other commuters, to the staircase leading down to yet another deck. It was a jumbled mess. As I was trying to go down, people were pushing me back up and I had to maintain a grip on the handrail just to keep myself from falling.

Not surprisingly, the ones who were the most aggressive were first-class women, none of them wearing lifebelts, but holding them as if they were the latest accessory. They were dressed in large hats, and while I could go on about how ugly they truly were…at least they were all dressed warmly. I saw a few fuzzy slippers here and there as I kept my eyes to the ground, but I successfully held my own.

"Oh, can you imagine!" one exclaimed to another. "And I'm not even dressed!"

"We'll be back in our cabins within the hour, I'm sure of it," the other stated.

Even with the commotion, it felt like organized chaos. It wasn't all that busy, just a little crowded in the stairwells, and as I forced my way through it to get down to the next deck, people all looked just as calm as I wanted to be. They were all merely trying to get to the Boat Deck in a timely fashion. I hope they'll be this organized when we dock!

I struggled to remember what needed to be done. What did Maureen say I had to do now…? Make sure passengers get up to the Boat Deck. Check, at least I hope people were going to where they should be. Checking the rooms was my idea, as I saw some other stewards doing the same, and…oh, what else? Oh, yes! I need to make sure, if absolutely nothing else, that the other stewards were up and conscious enough to assist. Even helping a clueless passenger into a lifejacket would be wonderful at this point.

That plan was crumbled to smithereens when I landed onto an even-lower level. I got completely confused! Everyone seemed to blend in with one another, but I still tried to pass the word on as best I could. It seemed as though it was much more cramped than before, with less than half the help.

Where the _Hell_ was everyone!? Were there crew members still asleep? Amongst this commotion, I wanted to know how!

"Please dress warmly, put on a lifebelt and get to the Boat Deck," I repeated too many times to remember, and still, it was as if none of it connected with anyone. Maybe it was a language barrier, because half of the people questioning me spoke in a language I didn't understand. There was nothing to be so worried about, but to get that across to someone who spoke in a foreign tongue was impossible! I did my best to console them, but to no avail. Once they figured out it was just a drill, all would be just fine.

E Deck! Finally! A sign was hanging above yet another set of stairs—and that was what I needed. I've never seen such a lovely sight! It was if it was lit up! It was just what I needed: other people up to help me and to get it, I needed to go down.

The working passageway, affectionately dubbed Scotland Road by some crew member or other, is luckily _on_ E Deck, where a row of steward cabins lay—the ones I need, of course, seem to be on either side of the hall.

At this point, I don't care where any sleeping employee is from, I could care less what they were hired to do, as long as they know how to fasten and tie a lifejacket, they're going to be perfect.

As I made my way down the hall, though, it seemed more crowded than I expected, but the only difference was that I wasn't being asked a thing. Everyone seemed to know where they were going—_Finally_!

I began to check the steward rooms, opening the doors and peeking inside, but I found every single one empty. Now, that would make sense…if I had seen _one_ steward on this deck!

"Lucy!"

I turned and sure enough, Alan shoved past some third-class passengers carrying a steamer trunk to reach me.

"What's going on?" he wondered, adjusting his collar. "I heard all this commotion, and no one's telling me what's—" He yawned.

"Maureen said, well—" The noise around us wasn't letting me form my thoughts! "We're running a boat drill!"

He looked at me, an eyebrow raised, puzzled. "Right now?" he wondered.

"Yes, Alan, _right now_."

"But, no one's even out of bed."

I released a sigh. What a wonderful observation.

"And why this late?" he asked.

"Alan, does it—" I turned to him, then, just as someone almost knocked me down! I gripped the wall for extra support as they moved past. "Don't you know?"

"What's there _to_ know?"

"We hit an iceberg."

"And that's why the boat drill was called…?"

"I think so." It seems likely, doesn't it? "This wouldn't be so bad if—" I squeezed myself past another large trunk in the narrow corridor, "if people were awake."

"Well, let's wake 'em up, then."

"Both passengers and crew," I added.

"Mostly everyone's already up and dressed," he informed me, "making their way up. A lot of stewards, too."

"Good." That was a bit of a relief. "Have you seen Maureen?"

I glanced over my shoulder, and I could tell by the look on his face that he hadn't. He didn't look in the least bit dazed, so he hasn't had the pleasure to run into her yet. If anything, it was as if he was as utterly confused as everyone else.

"Alan?"

He nodded, seeming to come out of his daydreams.

I sighed, forcing my feet to move. "Never mind."

"Are you sure about an iceberg?" he asked.

I wasn't even able to check his expression, but merely going by his voice, he sounded serious.

"_What_?" Did he really just ask me that!? "I think I just hallucinated, _what_? Did you really just ask me that or am I dreaming?" I continued walking, opening up doors of still unoccupied cabins. "Really, Alan, why would I tell you that if it wasn't true?"

He shrugged as I opened up another room door to find it still occupied.

"Maureen needs everyone up!" I called in. "Right now!"

I was about to walk away when I heard one groggy voice shout, "But, we're not on shift!"

"Well, we are now!" Alan shouted, clapping his hands together over my head. I had to smile; he looked a little out of his mind. "But, really, Luce," he said, catching up with me a few seconds later, "an _iceberg_? That's the best you can think of?"

"You think I made it up!?" I screeched. I took in a breath to regain somewhat of my sanity. "Alan, really, why would I make that up?"

Of all things I could lie about!

"I don't know," he admitted. He paused. "Well…Maybe, just…maybe you missed me…?"

"Grasping at straws now?" I laughed, I couldn't help it. "I left _you_ tonight, if you remember correctly, it wasn't the other way around."

"Well, I thought…" He shrugged. "You never know, Luce."

"Maureen has a lot of faults—"

"As we both well know," he chimed in.

"But." I hesitated. What was I thinking? Am I sticking up for Maureen Kexington, the woman who has made my existence aboard this ship absolute Hell? "I can't think of one reason for her to lie about this. Can you?"

And I'm being honest—to lie about an iceberg certainly wouldn't be beneath her, but not this late. No, at least I don't think…She's one tough woman, but this is beyond the realm of her normal compulsion to control her staff. I think.

"Not off the top of my head," he replied, "I guess you're right." He sighed. "But, _this_ late?"

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," I replied, opening up yet another cabin door.

I didn't make the rules, as he well knew. I brushed hair from my eyes as I peeked into the cabin, to find it once more empty.

"I know, I know." He rubbed his eyes, before stepping carefully over a small suitcase placed right in the middle of the hall. "I'll start checking rooms, then."

"Umm…and…" My conversation with Maureen played through my head at lightening speed. "Don't forget to direct the passengers up to the Boat Deck, alright?"

"Okay."

I couldn't even tell him how grateful I was. At least he was willing to get this done!

"No problem, Luce," he assured, patting my shoulder. He then grinned. "It is _our_ job, isn't it?"

I held in any more whining as more passengers rushed past between us. "Oh, don't remind me!"


	28. A Man in the Crowd

People can't follow directions. And while I'm usually accepting of this awful fact—when you're stuck below a ship surrounded by employees of the White Star Line, looking as confused as one could possibly look—you may want to strangle them. But you can't, because for one: it's morally wrong and two: Maureen will charge you for it. God forbid blood gets on the floor!

Alan and I had continued on our trek down into the ship, picking up lifejackets on the way. I shoved them into anyone's hands who didn't have one, repeating the instructions our employer, better known as Satan, had given to me earlier. It has been too long of a day to drag this out even more than necessary. Between this and checking room after room, most of them empty, I really deserved an increase in pay.

It was somewhere between all of this that I realized that we ought to go back up towards the first class. And while Alan had suggested this to me minutes before, I didn't think it was necessary until a mail worker with a large sack of mail tossed over his shoulder almost knocked me down.

That didn't scare me--people have been shoving past me ever since we passed through Scotland Road--but the fact that the worker was soaking wet from the waist down…now, that made me a nervous.

It actually _terrified_ me.

"Oh, excuse me, Miss!" an American man apologized, "I'm sorry! I didn't see ya there!"

Two other mail workers rushed past us down the corridor, also lugging mail bags behind them, their squeaky shoes leaving little puddles.

"Oh, it's alright—" I struggled to regain my composure, but all I could see was water. "Not a problem," I replied, forcing a small smile.

"I didn't hurt ya, did I?"

"No, no, I'm fine."

I couldn't help it, I had to ask how in the world he managed to get himself soaked through.

"How'd you get wet?" I wondered.

"Oh, the mail room's floodin', Miss."

"_Flooding_?" Alan's voice echoed from behind me.

I gulped.

"Oh, yeah," the man continued, "it's a mess!"

I was about to ask a question involving this so-called _water_, when he interrupted my train of thought.

"Oh, please excuse me!" He disappeared down the stairs, shouting to his fellow workers, "Hey, I'm back!"

I struggled to not let that consume me; it wasn't worth it. What did that man know, anyway? How did he know what was happening compared to what he had heard? Maybe the fact that he was wet should've set something straight in my head!

"Hey!" Alan brushed past me and hurried for the landing of the stairs the fellow had just run down. "Do you need any help?" he called.

"No, we're all set!" the American replied. "Thanks!"

Alan turned to me, shrugging a shoulder. "They're all set."

"You know what?" I didn't give him a chance to speak. "Let's go up, you're right, there's nothing more we can do down here, everyone's fine…" I began to back up, gripping the wall for support.

Water, water, everywhere…water, water…

"So, I'm right?" Alan turned back to me, astonished.

"Yes." I managed to stand up straight and took him by the wrist. "You're right. For a change. Come on."

"Wait, wait, wait." He stopped in his tracks. "Can't I relish in this moment?"

My heart skipped a beat, but I forced a small laugh. "No time."

And so, I forced Alan up those stairs with all my might, until we were back up towards the first-class area. As soon as I recognized my surroundings a bit, I felt immediately better, but the fact that the ship beneath my feet was leaking still made my heart skip.

But, hadn't I been expecting that? Not really, if I was being honest with myself. I expected there to be some water, sure—why else have a drill? But…doesn't a drill usually mean practice for a true emergency? Didn't Maureen say there was a bit of water, but not enough to be concerned about? But would Maureen be that worried about something so…_minor_?

Oh my God! Have I lost my mind completely!? Since when do I take Maureen Kexington's word for absolutely anything!? She was crazy! She was a loon! She was a bowl full of insanity! Lucy, I'm astonished at you!

Alan and I stood at the base of the Grand Staircase on A Deck, the closest I could get to the Boat Deck without actually being there. And while I was sure he would've been happy on B Deck, as he told me: "Its' still first-class!" it didn't settle me enough until I could see the outside. At least I could see what was going on then!

And truth be told: that crew member with the sack of mail, the one covered with water, he was still sending chills up my spine.

I kept my eyes peeled for my employer, however. Not that I wouldn't hear her coming, you couldn't miss her! It would be just typical if she should show up right about now, with me doing absolutely nothing. She would shout at us for not being proper White Star employees, as like any other day, only this time it was dark outside.

But I really didn't want to be caught standing there, with nothing to do. Granted, we had done what Maureen had told us, but I knew it looked awful to just be twiddling our thumbs. I began to bite my thumbnail nervously.

More importantly…

"What do we do now?"

I glanced at Alan, who had spoken the exact thing I was about to ask. I shrugged my shoulders.

"No idea," I admitted. "But I know one thing," I began, crossing my arms over my chest.

Alan leaned against the banister of the stairs. "That we need sleep?"

"I'm not going to stand here all night."

"But we don't even know what to do, Luce."

I looked around us. A few other crew members also found themselves in our midst, but they were talking amongst themselves. I didn't care what _they_ were doing—the fact that they weren't doing anything was enough for me.

Some passengers were around, too, chatting, but I could see out of a large set of windows to my right that most of them were outside, their backs to us, completely bundled up. I even watched as a woman descended the stairs behind us with her husband, wearing fuzzy flippers and a nightgown!

"I'm going back," I decided.

"Wait, what's the rush?" Alan released a yawn, grabbing my hand before I could hurry up the stairs. "Its' just a drill."

"Well, drill or no drill, I'm not going to be caught here doing nothing with Maureen on the loose." I turned back to the stairs. "So…"

"_So_?"

"Oh, I'm sorry Alan, am I bothering you?" I asked, sarcastic. "Are you coming or are you going to stand there all night?"

"Where are you even going?" he wondered tiredly.

"Anywhere but here."

"We have no instructions," he reminded.

"Like that's stopped us before?"

"_True_."

"Well, good luck to you," I muttered, "I'm not staying here."

I heard his exaggerated groan as I began up the Grand Staircase. "Lucy!"

I didn't stop, I kept going. Even if I didn't know where, I wasn't going to be the one discharged because Maureen was feeling particularly _generous_. Even if I had to tie more life preservers on people, at least it was better than nothing. And all I wanted to do was nothing!

"Lucy, hold on! Wait for me!"

I forced my feet to slow as he caught up with me, taking two stairs at a time. "Decide to join me?" I wondered.

"Did you actually give me a choice?"

I smiled slightly. "No, not really."

_Bang_! _Bang_! _Bang_!

What was that!? We both turned towards the windows, as did the people around us, before Alan and I glanced at one another.

"What was that?" I wondered.

It didn't sound good, whatever it was!

He shrugged. "I don't know…but, maybe Maureen finally got it."

"What?"

"You know, _bang_-_bang_." He made the shape of a gun with his hands and began to laugh. I felt my jaw drop, before I just gave it up—and laughed, too. As awful as it may be to think that way, it wouldn't surprise me if she had pushed someone over the edge!

"That's really terrible!" I giggled.

"What? The fact that I said it or the fact that you were thinking it?"

And that only made me laugh harder! "I'm not—" I struggled to find air. "That bad!" I managed. "I never thought that!"

"Sure you did!"

"No, I—" I leaned against him, gasping as the people nearby began to eye us, aggravated. "I didn't!"

"You can say what you want, Lucy," he continued on, "but I know the truth!"

"Oh, _pipe down_!" I heard a voice shout. I looked to my left to see a half-asleep crewman at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against a pillar. "People are trying to sleep over here, you know!"

Well, excuse me! Let us leave him in peace so he could get some shut-eye! I sighed, irritated and crossed my arms over my chest. The joke wasn't going to last for that much longer, anyway.

"Don't let him bother you," Alan said with a shrug.

"I can hear you!"

Alan went to rebuttal, but I took his arm and shook my head. "Not worth it."

"But—"

"No."

"You—"

"Yes."

"_So_…"

I eyed him. The way he spoke, it didn't sound good—What did he want? He was rocking on the balls of his feet, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"What?" I wondered.

"Want to go find out what the banging really was?"

I went to say no, but before I had the chance, Alan took my hand and dragged me down the stairs and towards the doors leading to the outside. As we stepped out, another _bang_ echoed around us.

With a single tug, I was instantly hit by freezing air.

"Oh!" Why hadn't I grabbed my coat when I was given the chance!? Never mind the noise! I began to shiver immediately—never had it been this cold before. It was stinging my face, and all over, and all the while, I could just see my coat in my room, all alone without anyone to warm…

_Bang_!

"Look up!" Alan exclaimed, pointing to the sky.

Fireworks lit up the darkness as gasps of "Ooh!" and "Ahh!" reached my ears.

As the noise receded, I glanced around us as music floated above me. The orchestra was out here, too? I guess no one was excused. But from where I was, I couldn't see any band members, but I knew they couldn't be far.

Passengers, just as I could see from inside, were standing around, practically motionless if you wanted my opinion—all prime first-class, and they were just as irritated by this as I was. If not more! And actually, that made me pretty happy—

Oh, I didn't even care! Just get me back inside!

"Alan."

Either he didn't hear me, as a result of the talking passengers and the work of the crew around us, or he was ignoring me—because he began to drag me across the deck, and I just knew he was going towards the edge. He didn't even have to tell me, I just knew!

And I wasn't going.

No, no, and no. I planted my feet to the floor, struggling to stay there. But I didn't think Alan even noticed my struggle because it took him another minute or so before he pivoted back to me.

"Lucy?"

Maybe he hadn't heard me, after all! I struggled to even hear him, but I knew by the way his lips were moving that he had said my name.

"Its' too cold!" I shouted, my teeth clacking against one another. "I'm going back in!"

And away from that edge.

"Nah, it's not that bad!"

I just began to shake my head. I could take walking down this on nights when it was just the two of us, but I could feel myself being clustered by white marshmallows, and my heart began fluttering in my chest.

"Lucy?"

I had to drag my eyes from where I could see one officer, in a hanging lifeboat, enticing passengers in with large waves and shouts—back to Alan.

"Yeah?"

"It's not that bad," he repeated.

"Of course it is!" I regained myself slowly, but surely. "We're in the middle of the North Atlantic, its' bitter freezing out here!"

"You want my jacket?"

"No, keep it. I'm going back inside."

"Don't you want to know what's going on?"

"You can tell me once you find out."

It wasn't like I had planned on coming out here to begin with!

I sighed, prying his fingers away from my wrist. "Well, we shouldn't be too worried—You did say it's just a drill, didn't you?"

"Since when do you listen to me!?"

"This is _not_ a drill!"

I began to search the deck wildly for Maureen Kexington, whose voice could register over absolutely anything. And who's voice I knew above anyone else's. "Look." I tugged on Alan's sleeve and pointed about twenty, maybe thirty feet away, where Maureen stood, hands on her hips, in front of lounging stewards leaning against an exterior wall of Titanic.

"Oh my God," Alan hissed into my ear, "are they _smoking_?"

"Don't know." To be honest, I couldn't tell if what I saw was smoke, or the reaction from the stinging air hitting their breath. "If they were, they better start praying."

"Amen."

Maureen's face, already red from the chill, began to turn an even darker maroon than I thought possible, and I knew she was about to throw her arms up into the air—as she had done with me before, when she stopped short.

_What_?

And while I expected her to start screaming bloody murder, her eyes examined the area around her, and seeing the first-class passengers scattered about, her vision merely narrowed.

Uh-huh, now that was Maureen for you. She couldn't look bad in front of the royalty!

Alan and I exchanged knowing looks. We'd both seen that look before.

The stewards began to crowd into the wall they had been leaning against, trying to hide themselves from her wrath.

"And just _what_ are you doing!?" She said this so coldly, that I swear only working people could hear it. "What do you think this is!? A boat drill!?"

Wasn't it?

A timid man, practically shoved by his so-called friends to the front of the huddle, began to speak, and I could see something lit between his fingers. "Ma'am, we were under the impression this _was_ a drill—"

"Not anymore!" She took a step closer to them, snatching the cigarette from the steward's index and middle finger. "This is not a drill. Let me repeat: this is not a drill!"

"Guess it's not a drill," Alan whispered.

"_Apparently_."

"So…" Maureen eyed each and every one of them, as they still stood close together. "Stop standing around and do something productive."

Now…where have I heard that line before?

She forced a large smile as an older couple walked past them, seemingly unaware of the danger zone they had just sashayed through. When they were completely out of earshot, she took a long drag of the cigarette.

"_Alright_?"

Mumbles of understanding came out, one by one, and they began to stomp out their cigarettes in defeat. Once she was satisfied enough, beyond the point of any one of those men re-gaining any ounce of their self-respect—one thing you lose while working for the White Star Line—she hurried past them and into the crowd.

"And Hurricane Maureen touches down!" Alan chuckled.

"Leaving behind a trail of human destruction," I laughed, "without a second thought." I hesitated, the cold not at all forgiving. "Alright, well…" I gestured to the door. "I'm going back in…" I could feel my words almost slurring together, my teeth too busy chattering. "Before I freeze to death!"

To get back inside without throwing a complete tantrum seemed like an impossible feat, and the door leading back to the warm indoors felt like hundreds of feet away, rather than just the few steps it actually was.

"Here, just take the jacket already."

"Alan—"

"I've got layers on. I'm fine." He pulled off his coat, but all I could see was his steward's jacket. I began to shake my head; I don't see any layers! "Trust me," he assured.

I forced a laugh. "Nice try, but I'm not staying out here."

"Why not?"

"Because…" We're on a ship, and while I had grown accustomed to that fact—I still wasn't completely comfortable with it. And he was leading me towards the edge, slowly but surely! "I…I…" I struggled for a plausible excuse. "I need to get back in there before Maureen sees something she doesn't like." I pointed to myself then. "Besides me. And if you were a smart man, you'd do the same."

"Why won't you let me do one nice thing for you, Lucy? Can't you just take my jacket and be grateful?"

I felt a tinge of guilt run through me.

"And what kind of a gentleman would I be if I didn't offer a lady my coat in a time like this?" he continued on. "Oh, and by the way: its' just so toasty!"

"Oh, I'm sure it is…" I said, playing along.

He couldn't just pull me in with that lovely…oh, so…_warm_—No! I didn't even belong out here! What kind of fool did he take me for?

"Why should I?" I wondered.

"Please? Before I change my mind."

"Fine. Before I change _my _mind." I released a breath of air, frustrated, as I let him drape his coat around me.

"Put your arms through," he directed.

With an eye roll, I did as I was told. What was the point of fighting him, really? I never win, and I needed to thaw out, anyway.

"Happy now?" I asked.

"Absolutely! Now you won't leave me out here all by myself!"

I knew it! I knew there was some ulterior motive, but sometimes, I like to think the best of Alan. Maybe I was wrong, but he can be good…_sometimes_.

"Oh, so that was your big plan?" I asked, with a laugh.

"Why else do you think I'd offer you this?" He held up a piece of fabric from my shoulder between his first two fingers. "Not really one of my best excuses, I know, but it was all I could do on short notice."

"I think she expected a bit more of you, Alan! Hey, you two!"

I peered over Alan's shoulder to see Harold Lowe pushing his way through the first-class crowd, most of them practically falling over in their life preservers as he rushed through, all in an attempt to get to us.

Alan turned to greet him. "Where have you been?" he wondered.

"What a way to greet a fellow employee!" Harry joked. He tipped his hat to me before placing it back on his head. "Hi, Lucy."

Finally! Someone with some authority, someone who had to know something!

"Harry, hi."

"Any idea as to what's going on?" he wondered. "I wasn't on shift!"

I slapped my hand to my forehead. Who was I kidding? These two, put them together, and you still don't have anything!

"Boat drill," Alan stated. "As says her." He pointed to me, as if I had dreamed the entire idea up.

"Hey," I said, slapping him on the arm, "I've already told you, I'm not making this up! If you want anyone to blame, it's Maureen. She's the one who told me to pass on the word."

Well," Harry began, pulling up the collar of his coat, "Captain's ordering all the women and children into the boats first."

I looked back to the noisy crew, still hanging in the lifeboats, but now there were some people sitting inside of them. The boat itself was swinging to and fro over the water, like it could barely hold the weight—and a shiver went up my spine. Is that even _safe_?

"And then what?" I wondered.

"Play it by ear, I suppose. Just a drill anyhow."

"But…"

Maureen said it wasn't a drill. My mind began whirling with what she could've meant about this whole thing, this whole incident, not actually being a…_drill_. How could I have forgotten such an important detail? Oh, I know how—Alan was enticing me with warmth!

"Maureen said it wasn't a drill," I managed to say.

"Seriously?" Harry asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," Alan agreed, "but that was said _while_ she was yelling at stewards smoking on the job. So, who knows."

What if Alan was right? What if what she said had been a scare tactic, to stress the importance of drills to stewards who'd much rather be lounging than working? And under normal circumstances, I wouldn't put it past her—I'm sure she's done much worse in her career with this company…but…

Who was I kidding!? When has Alan ever been _right!?_

"If it's just a drill," I began, "why did she say otherwise?"

"I just said why!" Alan sighed, exasperated. "Those stewards weren't doing what they were supposed to—You know she'd say anything to get someone back on the clock."

"I wouldn't put that past her, but—"

"The Captain didn't say a thing either way," Harry added in, shrugging slightly. "If that helps any."

"_Women_," Alan groaned, with an eye roll in his friend's direction.

"Alan?" I spoke through clenched teeth.

"Yeah?"

"I'm standing right here!" I placed my hands on my hips. "Okay, well, then…if this is all for nothing, what do _you_ think she meant by it?"

"Well…" His voice trailed, before he shrugged. "I guess it means we're not going to Belfast after all."

"Belfast?" Harry asked, confused. "What's that got to do—"

"_Alan_!"

I felt my blood begin to boil.

"What!?"

I smacked his arm. "Give up your dreams of Belfast already! Look around you!" I waved my arm around us, before pointing towards the ship's ledge, where all I could see was… "Look out there—Do you honestly see land anywhere?"

"Umm…No."

"Harry, do you?"

"No."

"All we see is…" I felt my heart drop. "_Water_."

Water, water…Water was absolutely everywhere. And sure, it had been that way all through this voyage—this was an ocean journey, after all, but it had been different then. As much as it had frightened me before, this all felt…_wrong_.

But, it didn't make any sense! We had a bit of a minor situation, this was nothing serious. And honestly, when things were really this dire, there was never any music! You should only hear the pound of your head, your heart, but…all I could hear was some fancy musical number, beyond the sounds of the crew shouting and working all over the deck.

"She exaggerates," Alan sighed, "you know that as much as I do."

"I know that and I don't even work for her," Harry agreed.

While Harry may have initially stopped my head from spinning, his comments didn't make me feel any better. My mind bolted back to what felt like only minutes ago, with those crew members, _soaking wet_, as they carried up letters that didn't really matter.

"What if she's right?" I asked. "What if…" I felt my voice lower. "We _are_ flooding?"

Alan released a laugh. "Oh, so you won't listen to me, but you'll listen to her!?"

Sure, I wasn't making sense, but no one ever said my thinking pattern actually had to be…_logical_.

I shook my head, beginning to rub my hands together as the cold worked its' way into my skin. I couldn't think of a good reason to argue with him, except for the fact that I didn't think she'd say that if she didn't mean it.

"I just don't…" I struggled to form the words that seemed so seamless in my head, but were impossible to say. It was as if my brain had decided that enough was enough—no more thinking until I got some sleep. But, really, how could I talk sense into two men who were determined to think that they wanted?

I went to say one thing more, only to find them gone! Completely disappeared! As if they had something better to do!

"Harry?" I called. "Alan?"

But all I could hear was the first-class people jabbering. Even if either Alan or Harry had heard me and responded—oh, I can't believe they just left me here! I could feel my blood beginning to boil once more.

"_Men_!" I huffed.

One second they're right here, complaining about you, and in the next instant? They're gone! Vanished into thin air!

But this could work to my advantage. It was just what I needed: a fantastic way to escape and get inside before I freeze.

I began to make my way towards the door when I heard someone shout my name. And not just anyone; it was Alan. Even in this cluster of first-class, I knew it was him for one single reason: he had to yell my nickname.

"Luce! Over here!"

I really should just go inside. It wasn't like he told me where he was going to be! Why shouldn't I do the same?

I stopped myself, anyway. And why did I? Because, to put it simply: I'm not Alan.

"Over here!" I called.

I could distinctly make out Alan's figure near the ledge—how in the Hell did he get there, _that fast_?—Harry and him were trying to help the other crewmen get the lifeboats filled.

Had I been that dazed that they had managed to get all the way over there without me even noticing? I knew I wasn't that alert, but had I truly lost it? Were my thoughts that deep, that even if I had been acknowledged, I didn't notice?

No, no…and, absolutely not, _no_. This was Alan, not a _courteous_ individual! Although I have to admit, I was expecting a bit more out of Harry, a full-fledged officer.

Harry was now in the lifeboat hanging off the edge of Titanic, with Alan beside him on the deck, trying to help passengers and control them at the same time. It was more chaotic than it had been only minutes ago—and even then, there had been so many people, it was as if someone was giving away free money.

Women were actually climbing into the boats from a chair placed right at the rim, while the men around them watched with jaws agape. And while this looked as unsafe as sitting on a full-edged razor, I couldn't look away. It was really just an accident waiting to happen, disguised as safety protocol.

"Luce!" Alan shouted, searching for me in the swarm of people. "A little help!"

Oh, no, no and no! I'm not going over there!

I just needed one way to escape. Just one excuse, and Lucy won't have to go over there. The feeling of being closed in caught my throat once again, and being surrounded by strangers made me feel even more claustrophobic.

A man in the crowd caught my attention, then. He had a woman maybe a bit younger than him on his arm, probably his wife, but I noticed that afterwards. It was the fact that he was tapping the chair at the rim of the ship, afraid it couldn't hold anything, with his cane.

He held out the cane in front of my co-worker, pointing back and forth to his wife and the chair, as if it all looked a little too dangerous—

_Oliver_. Only a few days ago, he had managed to stop Alan and I from continuing down the deck with his cane, and now this gentleman was doing the exact same thing. Except that it wasn't Oliver.

"Oh my God, Oliver!" I gasped.

I had forgotten all about him!

"Lucy, are you coming?" Alan continued to yell. "We need you!"

"Oliver," I murmured.

"_What_!?"

"Oliver!" I managed to bring up my voice so he could hear. "I have to check on him!"

"Lucy—"

Here was my excuse, my plausible excuse—one that didn't sound completely ridiculous. I hadn't honestly seen him, and what kind of person would I be if I didn't make sure he at least had a lifebelt on?

I began pushing back against the passengers towards the indoors.

"Lucy!" Alan continued to holler.

"I'll be back!" I assured, pulling open the door and stepping in.

"No—Lucy, Lucy wait!"

See? Sometimes logic _isn't _my best feature.


	29. The Detour

"_Lucy_," Mr. Andrews stated as he made his way down the hall, tied up in a lifejacket over his overcoat, "For _God's sake_, put on your lifebelt." He stopped short in front of me, placing a hand to my cheek. "Set a good example."

"Yes—_sir_," I managed, my hand falling from a cabin's doorknob. I forced a nod out of myself, even though I felt my cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment.

I wasn't sure of what else to say, but he moved right past me and down the first-class hall. Glad to know he was looking out for the crew.

Oh, wait!

I turned back to him as he practically disappeared from sight. Maybe he knew where Oliver's room was! If he could remember my name and Alan's, there was a good chance he knew who Oliver Bern was…and this was _his_ ship, after all…and…oh, I let my chance slip right through my fingers. Damn it.

My mind had since gone blank as I continued going through A Deck's first-class corridors. Even trying to replay the events of earlier tonight didn't seem to help me. I couldn't recall where Oliver's cabin was, no matter how hard I tried.

I had already checked most of this level, going practically into every room that wasn't locked—yes, rooms had been _locked_! Can you imagine the nerve!? Anyhow, none of them had any trace of Oliver.

But my memory was running on no sleep and no fuel. There was too much commotion to even hear myself think, let alone try to re-create when Alan and I had been when we brought Oliver back to his room.

All I knew was this: it didn't have any distinct look to it—he hadn't touched anything, it was as if the entire suite had been unoccupied through the entire voyage. And that piece of trivia didn't help me _at all_, since every single one of the first-class staterooms looked exactly the same!

One thing I knew for certain, though: he was first class, so that narrowed my search. Granted, there were too many first-class rooms to hunt through, even if I was willing to explore every suite. And I was.

Oh God, was I going to have to go back and find Alan?

No! I didn't need him; I was perfectly capable of finding one person, I had a brain! But, what if…? No, no, I wasn't going to put negative thoughts in my head. This was going to work in my favor.

I had been so sure of my path before—even if it didn't make sense to anyone else, and now I found myself questioning what the Hell I was doing.

At least I wasn't near the ledge.

As I rounded the corner, I came upon a staircase that led down to B Deck, which suddenly jogged my memory. Oliver was on B Deck! It was where I had gone earlier tonight before all the nonsense with Maureen had stopped me from going to sleep—_Oh_! I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. How stupid could one person be!?

I stopped as I heard more voices floating up the stairs. Even more people were down there, but maybe one of them was Oliver.

Next trip, and I know I've been saying this all along—Lucy is going to buy herself a map and take it with her everywhere, and I _mean it_!

"Miss, oh, Miss!"

I groaned. Oh, please, can't I do anything without a single hitch? I forced myself to turn to see a younger woman rushing towards me, a bundle in her arms. She had brown hair pulled up in a small bun and was wearing a life preserver over a rather faded nightgown.

"Yes, ma'am?" I asked.

"I'm not sure where I'm—I'm to go."

If she had been first-class, I would've told her to follow the scent of money, but she looked too frightened to insult.

"For the Boat Deck?"

She nodded.

"Well…"

"Oh, _please_, Miss, I'm absolutely lost."

The blanket in her arms began to whine and on closer inspection, I realized she had a small baby with her. And really, I'd be just as mean as Maureen if I didn't at least _try_ to help her.

"Well…" I gestured back down the corridor where I had just been, trying to form instructions to say. "You just go down this hall, go for the Grand Staircase and there's a door on your left and right—"

"So, down the stairs…?"

When did I say _that_? But I stayed quiet, since the look on her face showed everything. She obviously didn't understand, or know where she was going—which made her just like me.

"Would you like an escort to the Boat Deck?"

Her expression brightened.

"Oh, that'd would be just fantastic!" she exclaimed.

And so, I found myself going backwards in my expedition to find Oliver Bern. I wanted desperately to say no, but I knew I had made the right decision. She was a nice enough girl, and really, the sooner that baby got back inside, the better off she'd be.

"I'm a nanny, you know," she began, as we went through revolving doors towards the Grand Staircase, "and the lady of the house I work for?"

"Mm-hmm?" I wondered.

"She was to come back for me, but she didn't. Neither did her husband."

"So, they left you in the room by yourself?" I asked as we descended the stairs.

"Well, its' only a drill." That shouldn't even matter! I had to bite my tongue, because I really wanted to ask her what was wrong with her employers. I knew what was the matter with mine—but really, no one deserved this girl's misery.

The baby in her arms began to fuss as we stopped at the base of the Grand Staircase.

"That shouldn't matter," I stated.

She shrugged lightly.

"What else am I to do?"

_Quit_! That was the first step. Then, tell them to go to Hell. I had a few ideas, actually, but as soon as she smiled at me, I smiled back. We both served people we couldn't stand, and our hands were tied when it came to saying anything about it. We were practically the same—only with different shades of hair.

"And besides that, Hazel would be lost without me." She nuzzled her nose to the baby's and began to coo. "Isn't that right, darling?" she murmured.

"And they didn't come back?" I asked in disbelief.

"They're probably out here, knowing them," she answered, pointing to the outdoors. She laughed. "They're _preoccupied_."

I wanted to comment so badly on that, but not knowing who she was talking about, I hesitated. But without sleep, who knew how much I'd be able to censor. As if Maureen would buy that terrible excuse!

"Let's find them, then." I held open the door for her. "Ladies first."

She took a step outside and I quickly followed her, before the cold air once again hit me.

I stood on my tiptoes to get a peek over the crowd, which seemed to have tripled, maybe even quadrupled, from the time I was last out here. And the boat Harry and Alan were loading? It was gone, so that option was out of the picture—and they were nowhere to be found, either.

So, I needed another lifeboat. And fast.

"Which way do we go?" she asked above the noise.

I shook my head, turning slightly on my toes, searching for men seeming to hang in mid-air. If I could see them over the royalty's heads, I knew they had to be elevated—and in my congested thought process, that would mean they were near a lifeboat, trying to help passengers in.

"Alright, this way." I gripped her by the arm and began down the deck, following the flow of the people to the back of the ship as we did so.

"Aren't we going the wrong way?"

"No," I called back, "this is right!"

At least I thought it was.

"Excuse me," I said, forcing myself between the swarms. I was too absorbed in what I was doing to even worry about who they were—It was way too cold!

"Are you alright?" I asked over my shoulder. I still had a firm grasp of the girl's arm, so I knew I hadn't lost her in the disarray.

"Yes!"

I jumped up once, just once, and I knew I was going in the right direction. See, this was when Alan's height would've come in handy!

"Pardon me, pardon me," I kept saying, even though I knew they couldn't hear me, it was out of habit—not out of courtesy.

"Women and children to the front, please!" I heard a voice shout.

"Alright, this way, come on," I urged, nudging more passengers past us. "That's us!"

"I've got a baby!" she shouted.

What a grand idea! She was a smart little thing, this nanny!

"Please, please, let me by!" she continued. "Please, I've got a baby."

And sure enough, the drove of people began to slowly, but surely, disperse on either side of my companion, and up to the front we got, to the same officer who had been bellowing about women and children.

I didn't recognize him, but he was efficient. I could tell from a few feet away that the boat behind him was quickly filling up. We had gotten there without a minute to spare!

"Miss, this way, this way please…" the officer pulled her out of my grasp and she disappeared towards the ledge, where I didn't dare go. I was too close as it was.

But I realized then she was shivering terribly, and she barely had a single thing on besides that lifejacket—and that little girl had to be cold, too. And she was about to hop right into that lifeboat!

"Oh, wait, wait!" I exclaimed.

She turned back around instantly, and holding my breath, I quickly pulled off Alan's coat. I took a step towards the ledge and placed it on her.

"Wrap the baby up in the arms," I instructed.

The least thing the royalty could've done was given the poor girl a warm enough coat! Was that so much to ask?

"Thank you." She turned back and handed the baby off to a crew member standing in the lifeboat, just as I took a few steps back. I could hear the water lapping against the side of the ship, and I could barely take it. But I also couldn't take a freezing child. What if it had been Jonathan?

"Miss, Miss, what about you?" the commanding officer asked.

I looked around me, certain he wasn't talking about me. I pointed to myself, then. "_Me_?"

"Yes, you!"

"Oh, no, no, I'm going back in—"

"Moody, put her in a boat!" a voice hollered and instantly, I was led back towards the rim as a heavy overcoat enveloped around me. "Don't listen to her, she doesn't know what she's saying!"

"Wait, wait, _no_!"

I dug my feet into the deck, but it didn't matter. I was still moving!

"Don't cause a scene, Lucy!"

"I don't care if I am—"

I stopped short. Wait, who was that? It wasn't Harry! It wasn't his voice! I turned against the struggle to see Officer Will standing before me. In my rage, I was even able to remember his name!

"Get me away from this lifeboat, Will!" I screeched. "_Right now_!"

His eyes widened in concern and suddenly, he wasn't fighting me anymore. I pushed back into the crowd and past him, only to have him instantly on my heels a second later.

Of course, since I was being hysterical, the group scattered like I had a contagious disease—and I contemplated going back for the door, when Will grabbed me by the wrist. He turned me around before I could even argue.

"Lucy, wait, please!"

He looked too frightened…and I couldn't say no.

"What are you doing?" I hissed angrily. "You can't just force me into a boat! Just who do you think you—"

"Do you realize that we're sinking?"

"_What_?"

"Must I repeat it?"

"But, it—it was only a drill," I stammered, "and…it was nothing serious—"

Even I had doubted what Maureen had said, from the very beginning, but I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to.

"_Lucy_." He took a step closer to me and placed his hands around my arms, keeping me still. "I've got a lifeboat right here for you; are you honestly hesitating on me?"

That girl, as sweet as she was, had taken me off my course. If I wanted to place the blame, which I really didn't, it was her fault that I was even out here to begin with. She had shifted my plans and what I had wanted to do hadn't happened yet and…

I forced my eyes to meet his. I knew he was right, but I couldn't keep myself calm under his petrified expression. He kept his vision locked on mine and in that very instant, I saw something in his gaze.

My heart skipped once again, only this time it wasn't out of fear. I suddenly saw myself with this man, weeks from now, months, and even years from tonight. And I looked happy. Happier than I ever thought I could be. I'd even go as far as to say I saw myself _overjoyed_ with him.

But, the vision disappeared the moment I blinked.

I released a large breath of air. Was I out of my mind? I barely knew him! It was crazy, but as I took another breath in, I suddenly found myself in a dilemma.

Do I go back? Or do I take his advice and get into that stupid lifeboat?

I focused myself back on his eyes, hoping for another glimpse of what I had seen before…but all I could see was _him_.

"I, I can't," I managed.

What!? What was I saying!? I wanted to get out of here!

"There's something I have to do first."

I knew what I wanted. He was right here, in front of me! But I was thinking twice, really? _Why_? Because Lucy's conscience, that had somewhat taken a backseat on this voyage, had bubbled up in my heart and I couldn't knowingly walk away from Oliver Bern. And at the same time, I couldn't walk away from William Murdoch, either.

"None of that matters now!"

"It matters to me."

"Stay," he begged. "I'll get on this one with you, Lucy, _please_—"

"I'll come back!"

"The boats may all be gone by then."

And I realized the boat I had placed that nanny and the baby on had already been lowered away. Maybe he was right…no. _No_.

"Just give me twenty minutes," I insisted. "That's all I need, if that, and I'll come back. Please." I paused, not sure how close I was to losing my mind. "Won't you wait for me?"

He didn't falter, but I felt his hands get a firmer grip on my arms, trying to get a better hold of me. "_Absolutely_, I will."

"Really?"

"Yes," he answered. "Don't you know? I've waited all my life for you."

"Then…" He saw what I did. I guess I wasn't crazy after all, and if I was, at least I wasn't alone. "Then, what's a few…few minutes longer?"

Only I could take a statement so genuine and use it against someone.

I saw Will's face, so certain before, waver.

"Lucy, I don't know…" He sighed, gesturing behind him. "Won't you please just go now?"

"In twenty minutes I'll do exactly that."

"No arguement then?"

"None."

He pulled me into an embrace and while unexpected, it was absolutely wonderful. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. He then bent down slightly to meet my face. And just as I was about to turn away, he placed a small kiss on my cheek.

"I'll be waiting," he murmured.


	30. B Deck

I found myself in the Verandah and Palm Court once I got back inside. The moment I saw the elevators, I thought about going for them—B Deck was where I needed to be, and the sooner I could get there, the better.

But I kept on going, right past those elevators, because it didn't look like anyone was getting on or getting off. I zigzagged right past the crowd around them and ended up in the First Class Smoking Room.

Oh…maybe I should've waited for the elevators, after all. I thought about turning back, but really, wasn't that only wasting time?

No. I didn't need them—I had managed to get around this ship without Mr. Andrews' elevators all this time, the stairs always seemed to get the job done! Now would be no exception.

Except for the one small catch I forgot to remind myself of as I rushed through the smoking room: I didn't know _where _the nearest set of stairs were.

Damn it.

B Deck was where I was going when I had to take my detour, so Oliver had to be there. If he wasn't, I wouldn't know where else to look.

I tried to keep my mind occupied as I made my way through the ship, knowing sooner or later I would have to reach a set of stairs. But all I could think of was Will waiting for me, and that made me walk faster, to the point where I was actually running, searching on either side of me for stairs.

I found them! Another section of the Grand Staircase was right in front of me! In that moment, I knew Mr. Andrews was a designing genius—maybe I hadn't found my way yet, but at least I found _stairs_!

I was down on B Deck in the blink of an eye and I wondered which way to go. To my right was a restaurant, to my left was a sitting area. I knew one way would lead me to Oliver, while the other might confuse me even more. If I knew Titanic, which I really didn't, the cabins were probably all on the same side, no matter what level. And I needed first-class.

So, I took a wild guess and turned straight around and went towards the bow of the ship, just as I had done earlier tonight. At least, I _think_ I did that.

I didn't particularly like doubting myself, but my sense of direction, or lack of, was working against me. It always had, and now it seemed worse than ever. If I took a breath and stopped rushing myself, my thoughts might just make sense—but what if I took my time and lost my chance?

I still couldn't wrap my head around the very idea of Titanic sinking. I believed Will, though. He knew what he was talking about. I could only disillusion myself for so long, anyway. The feeling in the air around me was becoming more panicked—and I stopped hearing comments about passengers going back to their rooms as I traveled along.

I knew I should've listened to my instinct when I saw those men with the sacks of mail a few hours ago. But I didn't! I had tried to glaze my thoughts over with positive thinking, by even telling myself that it was all minor. I had tried to believe what Maureen had first told me—sure, there was a little water, but when had a little water ever hurt anything?

All along, though, a nagging thought in the back of my head had been telling me something was the matter. Even when Maureen had shouted at those stewards, I had let myself be cornered by Harry and Alan, who shrugged off her statements as typical Kexington behavior. I always thought she was serious. I knew what was true then, and now, with what Will told me settling in, I was absolutely certain.

I didn't want to be right, though. I had hoped I had been wrong the entire time.

Oh! My change of direction had been right, after all! I could now see a hall full of cabins, and I knew on the opposite wall, a whole another row sat, waiting to be scavenged through.

Well, it was now or never.

Down the corridor I went, opening up door after door. I called in each and every one of them, searching for Oliver. I never heard him, or anyone else for that matter, reply back to me. And while the fact that I wasn't distracted was positive, I wanted nothing more than to hear his voice answer.

I reached the end of the hall, with one room to my left and my right. I reached instantly for the door on my right and knocked before opening it.

"Hello?" I called in.

No answer.

"Is anyone in there?"

I waited a second, but again, I didn't hear a sound.

I took a step inside, and glanced around. There was absolutely nothing about the room that made me think someone was actually living there—everything had been left how it was originally found. Just like every other cabin I had been in.

"Hello?" I asked once more.

It looked deserted.

I was about to turn to leave when something caught the corner of my eye. The bedroom door, to my right, was shut, but there was a light on behind it. Wonder who could be in there.

I walked towards the door and knocked on it. My knuckles were already aching, but I ignored it.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

_Nothing_. Not that it stopped me any.

"My name's Lucy," I began, "and I must ask you to make your way up to the Boat Deck immediately. Please dress warmly." I knocked once more. "Hello?"

I didn't have time to fool around!

"Alright, I'm coming in."

I opened the door and peeked my head through, half-expecting to be greeted by someone with a blunt object in their hand. But nothing of the sort happened. I rounded the corner slightly to see Oliver fast asleep in his bed—just as I had left him.

"Oh, _Oliver_!"

He was the only passenger I knew of who could've slept through this kind of chaos!

I came right in and went towards his bed. I shook him slightly on the shoulder.

"Oliver?" I asked. "Oliver, it's time to get up."

I turned and went for the closet. Standing on my tiptoes, I reached for the top shelf above his hanging clothes and snatched down a lifebelt.

"We're in the middle of an emergency," I began, talking loud enough that my own voice echoed in the closet, "so we need to get you up to the Boat Deck." I glanced over my shoulder at him. "And it's absolutely freezing, so if you think you're going to wear that dinner jacket as your coat, you're insane."

I threw the lifejacket over one arm as I searched for a coat. To my left hung a black wool coat and I could tell just by touching it that it could keep four people warm—let alone just him. That'll work. I pulled it off the hanger, but stopped. Turning back, I pulled down a lifejacket for myself before I pivoted back towards him.

"Alright, Oliver," I sighed, placing the coat and lifejackets over the foot of his bed, "open your eyes for me."

I shook him by the shoulder once more, but this time, he didn't just stay quiet— his head bobbed slightly towards the wall, as if he had no control over it.

"_Oliver_? Can you hear me?"

I pushed back the blankets and reached for his wrist. I held in my breath as I tried to find a pulse. I couldn't feel a thing. The fact that I was suddenly shaking had absolutely _nothing_ to do with it.

Something was wrong.

"Oliver, you're scaring me…"

I kept myself talking as I turned towards the bedside table and pulled open the drawer, rummaging through it in search of the one object I needed. Every single bedroom had one, and if his room didn't, then I was reporting it.

All I could find were blank pages of White Star Line stationary. So in my haste, I tossed them over my shoulder and kept on looking.

"This is an awful trick to play on me," I stated, "and it's not funny. You know how late it is, don't you?"

I felt my fingers brush against hard metal and knew I had found it. I pulled out the hand mirror I wanted. I caught a small glimpse of myself and shuddered. I looked dreadful. No matter; I placed the glass underneath Oliver's nose and watched, just as the blood in my body began to pump faster. I felt my face begin to heat up, as I was waiting to see fog come over the glass…

My mother had done this once before to me, when I had caught an awful cold a long time ago, so I knew it was somewhat foolproof.

I even shut my eyes for a moment, hoping I was just a lousy nurse who couldn't find a heartbeat.

When I opened them, I glanced down at the mirror, but it was as clear as it had been when I pulled it out of the drawer.

"_Oliver_?"

I heard my voice shake as I said his name. The mirror was faulty! It had to be. Did I actually expect the White Star Line to issue _usable_ hand mirrors?

"Open your eyes," I begged, "Oliver, _please_."

He wasn't breathing. If I wasn't sure before, the mirror had proved me wrong.

"Oliver…"

I sat down beside him and took his hand, trying desperately to keep my tears in control. I couldn't.

I felt myself mindlessly beginning to rub his hand, trying to get him to warm up, even if it was pointless.

"_Oliver_?"

Even if he didn't answer, it was still worth a try.

But, really, he couldn't just be…_gone_. He had to be alright—He was Oliver Bern, for God's sake! No one with that kind of heart would have any reason to go so soon. He was the one person in first-class who treated me and the rest of the crew like actual _human beings_—and for that, he had earned a special place in my heart.

As I sat beside him, my brain began to nag at me. It told me to go back to the Boat Deck, while my heart told me to stay, even if there was nothing I could do for him, even as Titanic sank beneath my feet.

I knew what I had to do, though. I had made a promise to someone else, to save myself, and I had no intention of losing him, too.

"Oh, Oliver…"

I pushed myself off the bed, keeping a firm grasp on his hand as I did.

"Good-bye," I whispered, brushing back a strand of hair from his closed eyes. I placed his hand to my cheek and placed a small kiss on it. "Thank you for being so kind." I managed to let him go, even though it was harder than I thought it would be, and tucked his arm back underneath the blankets. "Good-night."

I could only stare at him, sleeping so peacefully, before I found the strength to wipe away my sadness. I even said a quick prayer for him, before turning back to the lifejackets I had taken from the closet and took one for myself.

And so, with a heavy heart, I left Oliver Bern, for he had gone to sleep on the grandest ship in the world. No one could ask for a more peaceful passing than that.


	31. Calculated Misstep

I was in a rush. Well, rushing was actually an understatement. I was practically running to where I needed to be. As soon as I left Oliver's room, I climbed up a set of stairs back to A Deck. I began to travel back to where Will was.

The passengers standing about seemed to have thinned, but I knew it was only getting worse. I could hear hustling and bustling from the outside, and that only made me want to go faster, even if I physically couldn't.

I went down the Grand Staircase once more and was struck suddenly by the thought that this could be the very last time I traveled on these stairs. I had gone up and down them without a single thought this entire trip, except for the fact that I wanted to use the elevators, and now, I may never see them again.

It may be silly to rush back to a man I barely knew on a feeling, but feelings aside, I had made a promise and I wanted to keep my word. The fact that he trusted me to come back should be enough to make me move, and it was. It fueled my legs to go even quicker than I thought possible.

And really, what if my happiness was resting on his shoulders?

The First Class Smoking Room was still vacant as I passed through it. If anything, I could've sworn some of the brandy glasses were missing, but I didn't bother to check for sure.

The revolving door on the other side of the room began to turn and I saw Mr. Andrews come through it, a lifejacket in his hand.

What was he still doing here?

It was as though he didn't see me. He was staring straight at the carpeting, his head was down, and it was until he practically bumped into me that he even noticed I was there.

"Oh, _Lucy_." He stopped at my side, and fixed his gaze on me. He looked like he was in a complete and utter daze. "I see you got yourself a lifebelt," he managed, gesturing to the puffy lifejacket in my hand.

I nodded.

"Well, you ought to put it on."

"I will, Mr. Andrews, I promise."

"Good." With a small smile, he bobbed his head. "_Good_." His face dimmed and he started once up to trudge his way through the Smoking Room. He never said another word.

"But…"

He kept shuffling his feet, though. I wasn't even sure if he had heard me. I watched him over my shoulder, trying to think of something more to say, but once again I just find the words. I wanted to know what he was doing here, when he could already be out of harm's way. Why wasn't he gone yet?

This was just…absolutely…impossible to comprehend.

I made my way back into the Verandah Café to see that this room, like every other, was deserted. All the tables were unoccupied, all of them unset, and it looked completely awkward empty.

Suddenly, I felt a shift from beneath me. It was small enough to make me lose my balance, but it passed as soon as it had come. And then I felt the movement again. This time, it was much stronger, and I began to fall, losing my footing…so I reached for a nearby chair to catch me, but my fingers missed it.

Well, I fell to the ground, so slowly I felt like I was going in reverse. It always seemed to happen that way…your senses give out and suddenly, you find yourself face-to-face with the floor. It caught me off-guard, but that was where I found myself.

I took a few breaths, trying to control my erratic beating heart. I was just about to stand, I was crouched, preparing to get up, when I heard something…and it was getting closer.

I didn't have time to get out of the way of a rolling dish cart. It seemed like it was speeding towards me…and then began to lean…much too far, and fell over on me.

And while that would've hurt like Hell normally, it was ten times its' normal weight because it was filled to the brim with White Star Line china.

The last thing I heard was expensive dishware smashing, glasses breaking over the tile around me, before everything went _black_.

When I came to, I couldn't even open my eyes. I tried, but failed. I didn't know how long I had been unconscious. Was I out for a few seconds, a few minutes, or was I already past my deadline for Will?

My head began to instantly pound. It was as if my brain was being hammered. With every inhale of air I took, the pain intensified two-fold, so much so that I didn't want to move.

I had to get up, though. But, first things first. I had to get my eyes to open for me. I concentrated, even though it made the pain in my head worse, and I slowly, but surely, opened one eye.

Through blurred vision, I could see the smashed dishware around me, but everything else looked to be in order. What order that was, I didn't know.

I was still nervous to move. One of my arms, the one I could see, was covered in glass bits, and I didn't want to cut myself trying to get up. But I was making excuses, if only because the throbbing in my brain was getting worse.

I managed to open my other eye, and blinking a few times, I could see somewhat of what I wanted. The cart had tipped over, and a part of it was still on top of me. How was I going to pry that off?

I was much too tired to even move myself, let alone the cart! But I was losing my focus. I had to find a way. For God's sake, my future was right outside that door!

So, I shifted myself to my side and shakily, managed to lift myself up on one arm. I looked down to see the damage around me, and while I saw only more broken china, I could also see streaks of red on the tile.

I must've hit my head. _Hard_.

With my free hand, I used all the force I had to push that damn cart. And at first, it barely budged. I already had an incentive to shove it away, but that was merely mental. I really needed _him _to pry the cart off of me. I didn't think I'd be able to.

I tried to catch sight of the door, to see if he was even out there, but I couldn't. I was on my own.

I could do this! I may be injured, my head may very well be spinning, but I've gotten myself out of worse than this.

Haven't I?

So, with another deep breath, I heaved the cart with all of my might. I didn't think I'd given it my all, but the cart fell to the wayside, and more importantly, _away _from me. And now I just had to get myself to stand…which sounded easier than it actually was.

Where was a chair? A table, even? To my right sat a table, and the chair I had tried to grab before, and as soon as I felt my hand touch the wicker, I pulled it closer. If wicker was good for absolutely nothing else, it wasn't heavy—but it felt like there were fifty-pound weights on each leg.

I heard the chair slide past the broken property, and as soon as it was close enough, I heaved myself up into it. I was even going to try to stand, but as soon as I was upright, I was so dizzy, I just _had _to sit.

I peered down at the mess, and if I looked close enough, I could even see my outline around the sharp pieces. As I placed a hand to my face, I didn't feel skin. I felt something sticky. I pulled my hand back and sure enough, it was covered in blood.

Oh, yeah. My head. Somewhere, it was bleeding.

I tried to feel for the wound with my clean hand, looking for the source of blood so I could fix it, but it wasn't on my face at all. I went to my forehead, and when I touched it, I felt a spasm of pain go through me. But still, no blood came off on my hand.. I began to go to the back of my head and when I reached the crown, I knew I had cut myself in that exact spot.

Well, if I was going to be accurate, I didn't cut _myself_, the cart and the contents on it had caused the problem, but it didn't matter. As I felt my head, I knew it was worse than expected. As soon as I applied pressure to the spot, I began to hear this bubbling sensation in my ears, and I didn't know where it was coming from.

_Oh_.

I let my arm drop to the table, and placed my head down on it. I began to lean my weight against the table for support. I just needed a few minutes, and then, I'd be able to stand…

I knew if I felt like this, with the bubbling in my ears intensifying with each passing second, I wouldn't be able to. I didn't even know where I found the strength to do so, but the actual thought made me begin to cry. As if the throttling inside my skull didn't cause me enough pain, I couldn't stop myself from understanding that I was losing what I really wanted.

I could hear screaming from outside, but it didn't bother me so much anymore—it was being drowned out. I wondered what time it was, even though I knew it may just be too late.

Why did he do it?

I had asked myself that a few minutes ago, before I had thought back to why I had decided to join this journey in the first place, but I realized Will Murdoch had let me go because that was what I had wanted. And I could see now that it wasn't _his_ mistake, it was mine.

Why hadn't I taken his advice, anyway? Why was I so stubborn?

Smells of cologne wafted up to me—must be from the coat, where small spots of red were soaking into the wool—and I knew Will had to be around. I'd like to think he wouldn't have left without me, he said he'd wait.

Either way, he was gone. I didn't know _where _he was; he could be right outside that door, waiting for me, but I'd never know.

I had let him go, as if it hadn't mattered, and now, there was a chance I'd never see him again. What could I have been thinking?

I turned away from the outside door and focused my attention instead on the revolving door that led into the Smoking Room. I wondered about Mr. Andrews and what would happen. Then again, I began to think about everyone.

I had to wait.

My eyes shot back open. I was back to where I had started and much too soon. I was still in a state of limbo.

I suppose now I would never know what could've been with Will, and really, it was my own fault. I had ruined it for both of us. And really, for what? _Money_? Money didn't seem all that important anymore.

While there was still hope, I was no longer clinging to it. There was still a chance for him, for Mr. Andrews, for Alan—and if I was completely over the edge, I'd even say Maureen, but I had lost mine.

I didn't have the strength to stand and even try to make my way to safety. My head continued to crush my thoughts, but the screams had died away.

I shifted slightly in my seat, trying to make myself comfortable. I had been so close, I could practically touch it—I had seen it, but I had wasted valuable minutes, and now, there weren't enough to make up for what had taken place.

I was too late.

I had truly fallen short.

And I knew my time was up.

I closed my eyes once again—but I suddenly heard something. Between my ears ringing, I couldn't even believe I heard it, but I had. What was it? I made my eyes open, the lights above me stinging more than I ever thought they could, and looked down.

At my feet, sat a gold pocket watch, which must've opened up when it hit the floor. I recognized it instantly; it was Oliver's.

I didn't see the watch face, though. It had opened to the back, to a compartment I never knew had been there. Staring up at me was a photograph…

_No_.

That didn't make an ounce of sense. I even blinked, as much as it hurt, thinking for sure my mind was playing tricks on me. I was hallucinating, I had to be.

…It just…_couldn't _be…


	32. Epilogue: Letters

It was a bright, beautiful day in Swaythling, Hampshire. It was now the end of April 1912, and while any new information on the Titanic's sinking was still being printed in every newspaper, the surviving passengers and crew began to shy away from it all.

Alan Mallard ignored it completely.

He roamed the streets in search of one lone house, the home he hoped would lead him where he wanted to be. All the while, he thought back to that April night, so many weeks ago, and it still managed to send shivers up his spine.

The very idea of passenger lists made him even more miserable than he thought possible. They had grown minute by minute, survivors giving out their names to the men who asked, but the one name Alan wanted to see was never recorded.

She hadn't come back.

No matter what had happened that night, she hadn't come back. And in the midst of it all, Titanic had sunk, leaving destruction and lost lives in her quake.

He gave up waiting, as the hysteria began to rise, and left his post to find Lucy. He asked anyone he saw if they had seen her, but no one had. If they did, they seemed to ignore him completely. Not that it was going to make him give up; that was the last thing on his mind. He didn't want to leave without her, and he never planned to.

Alan had found her, just when he thought he never would, sitting at a table in the Verandah Café, fast asleep. But the minute be began to speak to her, trying in vain to wake her, he had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong.

And he was right.

There were shards of china and porcelain at her feet, along with a turned over dish cart. It looked like an absolute war zone.

He tried his best to step over the shards to reach her, but it didn't stop his eyes from catching sight of red stains laid out across the checkered floor. Following the trail, he realized the tips of Lucy's fingers were also red, as was the top of her head. The blood had soaked her hair straight through.

He said her name, move and over, and shook her frantically, but she never answered him. Even if she wanted to, he knew now, she couldn't have. Instead, her head only bobbed against the arm draped across the tabletop, her eyes closed.

In the meantime, the lights overhead began to flicker, and panic began to set in.

Alan didn't know when, but as he walked through Swaythling, he became aware of the exact moment he was certain he had lost her. It was so obvious _now_ that she had already passed away, even before he had reached her, but _then_? It was the furthest thought from his mind.

The steward inhaled deeply, bringing himself back to the present day. He was tired of replaying the incident over and over, but that fact never stopped his brain. More than anything, the last words he had said to Lucy echoed in his ears before he had left her.

"_I'm sorry I couldn't save you."_

He stopped short on the walkway, trying to keep his emotions in check. He wanted to cry just thinking of it, and that was all he could do these days. He kicked angrily at a pebble, before feeling in his pocket for the last keepsake he had of Lucy Sullivan.

At her feet in the café, in the middle of the holy mess he had come upon, he had discovered a golden pocket watch. He quickly snatched it up before everything went straight to Hell. He snapped it shut just before a beam outside cracked—at least, that was what he thought he heard—before the lights flickered again, practically sending his heart into failure. To his horror, he had almost broken it.

Now, he stared at it in his palm, wanting to snap it open to see the photograph he saw that night…but decided against it.

As time had gone on, Alan discovered the initials engraved on the back and his heart sank. It wasn't actually Lucy's after all, but instead belonged to Oliver Bern. But it didn't matter who owned the watch; the very fact she had it with her made it sentimental. It was his only reminder of her.

The morning of April 15th came bright and early, but Alan, like the other survivors, were sleep-deprived and starving. He found himself standing beside Maureen Kexington, of all people, sipping a bowl of soup.

"So many people…" she mumbled.

Alan glanced over at her, and his eyes narrowed. How did she even _survive_? How could she have made it, while his best friend hadn't? Lucy wasn't like her or the rest of the crew, she had to make it through. She was the only one who had good reason to, but rather than having her stand beside him, it was his employer—who he still couldn't stand.

"A lot of crew," Alan managed.

"So many passengers."

Even to the end, she couldn't think of anyone but those passengers, and he merely shook his head.

"A lot of crew," he repeated, teeth clenched.

"What about Lucy?"

He shook his head.

"Oh, _no_. Are you sure?"

"Positive."

She paused.

"What about Oliver?" she wondered.

"Not that I know of."

"Well…I, I…"

Alan could've sworn she was struggling to speak, but he brushed it off as an impossibility.

"I never got to mail his letters, you know." She retrieved two letters from her apron pocket. "He gave them to me last night to mail, but I never got them downstairs."

"Better off here, I guess," he exhaled. "Mail room flooded first, anyway."

"I suppose I ought to give them to the Carpathia to ship."

She held them out to her employee, who took them with a small shrug.

He took the last sip of his soup. "I could take them," he offered.

"Would you mind?"

"Not at all."

"Alright, well…thank you, Alan."

He stood and began down the deck, and glanced casually down at the mail in his hand. Oliver Bern's scrawl cursive covered both envelopes, and Alan eyed the places each was addressed to. They were both going back to England. One letter was headed for London, while another was for Swaythling, Hampshire.

Then he spotted a name he knew all too well: _Sullivan_.

The note going to Hampshire was addressed to a Karena Sullivan. If that wasn't a coincidence, Alan didn't know what was.

Was that a member of Lucy's family? Could he have been that lucky? Or was it merely a case of mistaken identity?

Well, what was he supposed to do with it, anyway? If he was a smart man, he would mail them both without a second thought, but the very idea that this could be connected to Lucy intrigued him. So much so, that he kept only half of his word to Maureen. He gave an officer from the Carpathia the letter to London, and stuffed the other into his pocket. Once he got home, he'd think of a course of action he could take. If he couldn't decide, he could always just place it into a postal box; the postage was already paid.

Alan remembered now, as he traveled down the sidewalks of Swaythling, that the situation hadn't worked out in his favor. He soon found himself stuck in New York after the Carpathia docked, when all he wanted to do was take the next ship out. Perhaps it sounded a little unbalanced for a man who survived Titanic to have any desire to get back out onto the sea, but he just wanted to go home.

More importantly, he needed to figure out what he was going to do with that letter.

The United State's Senate inquiry into the tragedy was another bump in his proposed _plan_. It kept him in America for much longer than he ever wanted to be. He was subpoenaed to testify, just hours after he had bought his ticket home, and was so annoyed, he thought about just leaving anyway. In the end, he decided against it, and instead stayed until his day of testifying came. By the next hour, he was back on another vessel, heading to England.

He stopped once more, and retrieved the folded-up letter, that was more traveled than he was. The address was memorized already, but it wasn't a map. It didn't help him whatsoever in finding the Sullivan home.

Why bother searching for the house, anyway? Why didn't he just open it and see for himself?

"Because," he mumbled to himself, "it's not for me."

"Hey, fella."

Alan turned and standing outside the door of what looked to be a pub, was an older man, decked out in a red bow tie and a checkered hat. He swept the sidewalk once more before placing a hand on his hip.

"You lost?"

"Uh…" Alan gripped the letter tighter, shoving both it and the watch into his pocket. "No, I don't think so—"

"I only ask because you've passed by my place twice already."

"I _have_?" he asked, surprised.

"Mm-hmm. Want to take a load of? I've got plenty to drink inside…"

"No, no, I'm uh, I'm actually looking for the Sullivans…?"

The pub owner smiled. "Nice family, the Sullivans," he observed, "but they're on the outskirts of here. They've got a little farmhouse set back a ways on the road."

"Do you know how to get there?"

"Just follow this road here—" He pointed down Main Street with the wave of his hand. "And take a right once you get past the center of town, and you should see the house relatively soon afterward."

"Thank you," Alan said, forcing a small grin. "Appreciate it."

_Because apparently, the other directions I received were made up on the spot. The bottle in his hand should've been my first clue._

"But it's an awfully long way, want me to call a car for you?"

Alan shook his head immediately.

"No, no—"

"No trouble, really."

"Thank you, but…" He glanced up at the sky, and the sun didn't look as if it were going anywhere. "I think it's too nice of a day. I'd rather walk."

"Well, young man," the owner replied, "good luck!"

Time continued to tick by, but Alan had nowhere else to be. In fact, he was waiting for a subpoena to testify in the English inquiry. Even if he didn't want to relive it again, it wasn't like he had much of a choice should he be called.

The road turned to dirt soon, and narrowed to fit only one car. He followed the pub owner's instructions precisely and took a right as soon as the center of town dissolved. The noise of Main Street, although quiet compared to other places, including his own home in Southampton, mellowed as he walked.

Suddenly, he saw the house in the distance and his confidence seized up. Why had he been so determined to bring some letter to a complete stranger? If he wanted to leave this entire ordeal behind him, he knew he couldn't keep holding onto the past. But barely two weeks had passed since that night, and truthfully, he wasn't ready to let it go. Besides Maureen, he couldn't think of anyone who'd have the ability to.

Alan found himself in front of the Sullivan home, which was a grey stone cottage. Not that it mattered—he had no idea what he was going to do. The thought of turning around and going right back made a lot more sense than knocking on the front door. This probably wasn't the same person, anyway, so…

Then again, he could just slip the letter into the mailbox, and that would be it.

He was making excuses, and they weren't working.

But he'd never know if this was the same family he thought it was. If it wasn't, no big loss, and if it was…?

He glanced over at the mailbox at the base of the driveway and examined the numbers on it. It matched the address on the letter exactly.

"Now or never, Alan," he muttered.

As he cautiously made his way up the home's dirt driveway, he saw beds of bright flowers on either side of him. He went up the front walkway and climbed up the steps to the front door, where two flower pots stuffed with daffodils sat.

And he froze, hand in mid-air, about to knock.

"Alan, what the Hell are you doing?" he murmured.

His arm fell to his side.

He had hoped to think of some form of introduction, something intelligent to say without sounding like a complete fool, but that had never panned out. Instead, he was going to have to say whatever came to mind.

"Oh, _God_."

Without another hesitation, he knocked lightly on the door. Maybe no one was home? He was terribly nervous and even a bit jumpy, turning from the door to stop himself from shaking.

"May I help you?"

Alan whirled around and pulled off his hat. Standing before him was a blonde-haired woman, and he found himself smiling at her in an attempt to conceal his anxiety.

"Uh, umm, _hello_."

"Hello," she replied, a bit amused by his nervousness.

His breath caught, then. He had seen her somewhere before. Hadn't he? But _where_? He tilted his head slightly, searching his memory, before it came to him.

Standing in the doorway was the girl in the watch.

Doubt filled him an instant later. He couldn't be certain! What were the odds? All he knew was that he had studied the photograph ever since it came into his possession…but it hadn't gotten him anywhere. Most importantly, he knew it wasn't Lucy. And really, maybe it wasn't the woman standing at the door, either.

"Can I help you?" she asked, laughing.

And that sealed the deal. He still wasn't sure of the watch, that was still a mystery, but he recognized her giggle instantly—it was exactly like Lucy's. If he had any doubts of who this woman was, even the origins of her last name, he didn't any longer.

"Are you, uh—" He was tongue-tied. "Mrs. Sullivan?"

"Yes."

"_Karena_ Sullivan?"

"Mm-hmm, that's me."

"Well…" He cleared his throat. "My name's Alan Mallard."

"Pleasure to know you, Mr. Mallard."

"Same to you, but Alan's just, just fine, thank you…"

His voice trailed off.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, puzzled.

"Oh, _right_. I have something for you, actually." He reached once more into his jacket pocket and retrieved the letter. He unfolded it and attempted in vain to straighten it out, before Karena laughed.

"That's fine," she giggled, "I can read it a little bent. Thanks so much. Have a nice day now."

Alan was dumbstruck. He didn't know just what to say, but didn't want to leave, either. And there Karena was, stepping back into her home without a second glance. He was losing his chance.

"Um, ma'am?"

He felt his throat begin to close as she looked up from the envelope.

"Yes?"

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

_It's now or never, Alan. This could be your __only__ chance._

"I know the name Sullivan," he began shakily, toying with his hat, "are you related to a Luce—I mean, _Lucille_ Sullivan?"

The name echoed about them in silence, but Alan knew in a moment that he hadn't wasted his time. He had struck a nerve and could tell by the look on her face. Karena's flustered expression changed into one of pure surprise and she turned to him, eyebrow raised.

"Why, yes. Did you know her?"

He folded and unfolded his hat, unsure of what to say. He hadn't even expected to get to the front door!

"Yeah," he managed, "I did. I worked with her."

"Oh…" Her voice stumbled as she placed a hand to her heart. "You knew _Lucy_?" she asked, almost disbelieving.

"Yes, ma'am."

Karena's filled with tears before she gestured over her shoulder.

"Well, then, won't you please, come on in?" she asked, pulling out a handkerchief from her sleeve.

"No, I really couldn't, I—"

"I insist."

"I don't want to upset you any more than I already have…"

"Nonsense. Come on in." She took him by the arm and led him inside. "I just made lunch," she sniffled, "are you hungry?" Karena shut the door behind him.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Please, forgive the mess," she apologized, wiping her eyes, "I've been so busy…"

Alan glanced around the small living room, and everything looked to be in its' proper place. The windows to his left were wide open, the air blowing in and ruffling the curtains. There was a small coffee table in the middle of the room, and on either side were two large chairs and a small sofa, all of it perfectly neat.

"That's not a problem," he assured.

"Uh…" She gestured to the living room, turning her attention on the envelope in her hand. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, I'm all set."

"Are you sure? I have some right in the kitchen."

"No thanks."

"Well…" She placed her hands on her hips. "Please, sit down. Don't stand on my account. Just excuse me for one second." She dabbed at her eyes once more and stuffed her handkerchief back into her sleeve. "I have to check on something."

"Take your time."

She rushed into the kitchen as Alan seated himself on the small sofa. He watched as she disappeared from sight, and he heard another door open.

"John," she called, "are you okay out here? How's the sun?"

"Wonderful!" he replied.

"If you need anything, just let me know."

Alan heard the door click shut and Karena appeared once more in the living room, a pitcher of ice-cold water in her grip, along with two cups.

"You just never know," she said, placing the items on the table separating them.

"Was that…your son out there?" he wondered.

"Yes, John."

"_Jonathan_?"

"Yes." She nodded as she sat down in one of the two chairs across from the steward. "Did Lucy speak of him?"

He nodded, his complete shock turning into bewilderment. He couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that he had actually found someone _related _to Lucy, let alone her mother. At least he had been right on one account, but now he didn't know what he should do.

_Should've just__ placed the thing in the mailbox._

"How is he?" he asked.

"Today's better than yesterday. The doctor always says the sun will do him some good, and he begged and pleaded with me, so he's eating his lunch out there. Then again, with Lucy gone…I want him to be as happy as he can be."

With a sigh, she poured a glass of ice-cold water.

"Would you like some?" she offered.

"Sure."

Alan grew more antsy with each passing second as she poured the liquid into his glass. It sounded unhinged to be on pins and needles over water, but he inhaled sharply before his legs began to twitch underneath him. Suddenly, he stood.

"I shouldn't have come," he decided aloud. "I'm sorry that I even bothered you, I—"

"What?" She was genuinely confused. "You had a good enough reason."

"Yeah, but—"

"Besides," she interrupted, "no one's stopped by in a good week or so. And I'm getting awfully sick of that doctor of John's. He's our only visitor these days and he drives me absolutely batty." She rolled her eyes. "Sit back down, please. Unless." She smiled up at him. "You have some other place to be."

_Sit back down! Before she kicks you out._

He did as he was told and placed himself back onto the sofa.

"So, you work for the White Star Line?" she assumed, resting her head in her hand.

"Yeah." He blushed. "_Yes_, ma'am. I'm a steward. Was. Am." He shrugged. "Not really sure what I'm doing these days," he said quietly.

"Are you planning to resign?"

"I don't know yet." He shrugged. "I don't plan to go on any trips for some time, that's for sure."

"I understand. I'm not sure I'd want to go on any ship, either."

"I am very sorry for what happened to Lucy," he said softly, "she didn't deserve this."

"No one does. It was such a loss to all the families, really." She paused, shaking her head. "I was probably wrong in letting her go," she admitted, running a hand through her hair. "Between the two of us, we were practically making ends meet, but I just…" She released another sigh. "She said she wanted to go, but I should have stood my ground. No girl belongs on a ship that large, especially one who couldn't swim."

Alan's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"_What_? You mean…Lucy couldn't swim?"

And there he was, back on the Titanic, dragging his friend towards the edge to help with the lifeboats, oblivious to it all. He wondered how insensitive he could have been, how did he miss that?

"Oh, no. The poor girl was just terrified of the water, but I never pushed the issue until she got assigned to the ship. It was always better to be safe than sorry, I said, but…then she drowns."

"She didn't."

"What?"

"Well, um…"

Alan began to fumble, and tugged on his shirt collar in vain. What was he to say now? That he found her and she was already gone? And Karena just sat there, leaning towards him, completely curious.

He exhaled and shook his head. Next time, he promised, he was going to drop off any suspicious-looking mail into the nearest postal box and keep on walking.

"I went looking for her," he admitted. "By the time I got to her, though, she was already gone. I am _so _sorry, I never should have said anything to begin with."

"May I ask you one thing, Alan?"

"Anything."

"Did she suffer?"

"I don't think so, no."

Karena heaved a breath of relief. "Oh, thank God. I was so worried that she had." And she began to cry once more. "I'm sorry," she apologized, grabbing her handkerchief, "I shouldn't be…Oh, I just, can't stop myself…"

"I cared for her, too," he admitted. Alan's next words came out in a rush, before he could even filter himself. "She was my best friend."

"Well," she murmured, wiping away more tears, "I'm sure she cared for you, too, Alan."

"I hope so."

"I'm sure she did."

The heaviness in the room slowly, but surely, began to lift when Karena began to speak once more.

"Now," she began, collecting herself, "I ought to open that letter you brought. Just where did I put it?" She glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen. "Just let me find it, I'm sure I left it in the kitchen— I'll be right back."

Alan wasn't even concerned about the letter. In fact, he had already forgotten about it. Whenever he was surrounded by silence, his thoughts always went back to Lucy. Today was no exception.

"Found it!" She plopped down into her chair before Alan had even noticed she had left. "Would you mind if I…" She tugged at the envelope before glancing up at him. "If I opened this?"

"By all means, go right ahead."

"It's awfully rude of me to read with you just sitting there…"

"Don't worry about it," he assured.

"I can't say I've gotten a letter for a long time now," she stammered, and ripped open the note and unfolded the sheets. She quickly began to read:

* * *

_My dearest Karena,_

_You'd be surprised at who you may meet on a ship's voyage. And who could be more surprised than I when I found myself face-to-face with someone you know quite well._

_Our daughter? Well, she is absolutely beautiful!_

_You have done a wonderful job in raising her, Karena. My only regret is that I never got to meet her until now._

_In our time together, she told me of the reason for her employment with the White Star Line, and I feel as though its' my duty to help in any way that I can. Rest assured, I have written to my barrister in London, and please know that you will be provided for as long as you may need it. There's no reason to go without, especially over a silly thing like money._

_My dearest darling, in her I see you, and it is as though you have come back to me, as I always prayed you would._

_All my love, __Oliver_

* * *

"Oh, _my_," she exhaled. "Did you—" Her voice caught in her throat as she held up the papers. "Did you know Oliver?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Lucy and I met him a few days into the voyage."

"What was he like?"

"Very friendly," Alan replied, with a laugh.

"Did Lucy ever say anything to you about him?" Karena probed.

"Just that he was lonely." He shrugged. "She felt bad for him."

"I wonder if she knew…"

"Huh?"

"That Oliver was her father," she declared.

"_What_? You mean to say that—"Alan's mouth opened and practically hit the floor beneath him, flabbergasted. "You and Oliver…?"

"You didn't know, I assume."

"I had no idea!"

"Well, do you think Lucy had any sneaking suspicions?"

Alan grinned at her. All the pieces of the puzzle suddenly made sense.

"Somehow…" He pulled out the watch and popped open the back compartment. He held out the timepiece to Karena and pointed to the photograph. "I have a feeling she knew."

THE END.

* * *

_Author's Note, February 19__th__, 2010_:

I FINISHED THIS! I know, I know, I never thought it was going to end, I'm sure everyone else was thinking the same thing, but hey—its' done! Lucy's story is done! Do I get points for that? Yeah, yeah, I do. Haha! This was the most difficult story I've done so far, and I suppose that's what constituted the procrastination on my part. In one hand, I wanted to wrap it up, and on the other, I didn't want to let it go. But its' done anyway!

Really, I have to thank all the people who reviewed this story since I began it back in 2007 (WHAT!? 2007, really!?) and as of February 19th, 2010, they are: **A. Becker**, **overactive imagination**, **Engage Fiction**, **shariena**, **singing the sailor song**, **doctor's gal 1792**, **madluv**, **Starlight63**, **will you wait for me**, **Megz2009**, **Pretty Lady Pansy**, **Lady Amelia08**, **Khushbu**, **ophelia-andrews**, **Lady alpha wolf**, **brianaheart1995**, **LightsLover12**, **iiceangel3.o**, **Bohemian Anne**, **Lazy Chestnut**, **Omnipotent Genghis Khan Sammid**, **mwmsangel**, **chinadollontour**, **hornblowerarchiekennedyfan**, **windofawhisper**, **1fanofthemarauders**, **LifeLineGirl**, **Antalya1705**——WOW. Oh my God, thank you so much reviewing, everyone who took the time to do so! I hope I didn't miss a single person. And to all of the people who thought the summary was interesting enough to take a peek at it (since I know the summary doesn't do much for the imagination), thank you so much and I really hope you enjoyed your trip. I can't believe how many people favorited this and/or put me or "Swallowed in the Sea" on their alert lists, thank you for sticking with me to the end. It means the world to me. Really and truly.

Sincerely, The Author (Antoinette Rose)


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